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I'd found just the tip of the iceberg when I had that dream about the women I'd decided were somehow related to me. Most writers don't just sit down and start writing a story knowing exactly where it will go, how it will turn out, and what will happen along the way. Some start with research and the characters sort of 'find' them. Some start with outlines that act as a sort of map and lead them through the chapters. Others, of which I am one, spend a lot of time doing other things and thinking a LOT about a concept. A sort of 'what if' kind of premise. Early on in this blog series I mentioned a bit about the trauma I'd lived out in childhood, and later, in a difficult and abusive relationship. Life smiled on me, and I managed to move on, raise kids, have a fulfilling career and do a lot of the things that I loved. I thought I'd done a really good job of putting all the bad stuff behind me. But really, I'd just pushed it down very deep in my mind, while I found distraction in the things that needed doing. Work. Kids. Life. It's interesting to me now that my work started out as a sort of standard Human Resource role, but ended up as well - a coach. Later I trained formally and that training forced me to look at all the things I'd buried. And so emotionally, I began to move through them. It wasn't until I moved to London that I discovered another leftover from those early traumas that I simply never knew about. I'd had several surgeries on my cervical spine that resulted in some issues with my shoulder. My doctor in England wanted an MRI and CAT scan to determine what exactly was going on. It turned out that the shoulder issue was basic muscle atrophy that physical therapy could correct. So that was good. And then the doctor said something that would change my life. He pointed to the film from the CAT scan and smiled. "Your brain injury is healing quite nicely. How long ago did that happen?" I stared at him blankly, sure I'd misunderstood. Then I laughed. "Something funny?" he said, looking puzzled. "What brain injury? Are you sure that is my scan?" His expression changed. He pointed again, and explained that at some point, I'd suffered a traumatic brain injury, and he could tell from the area that looked like a paint spatter that it had been severe, and had happened a long time ago. I shook my head, tears forming as a slide show of the abuse I'd endured began to play inside my mind. "You don't remember?" he asked gently. "I didn't know," I said, almost in a whisper. I looked at the scan and then at him. " He hit me a lot. But he never let me go to the doctor." After that we talked for an hour, about everything. He suggested more tests and I told him I had years of memory that just wasn't there. That I'd felt sometimes that words would escape me and then weirdly come back. That I had trouble understanding conversations when multiple people spoke at the same time. I was sixty one then, and I worried a lot about Parkinson's, as my dad had been diagnosed at 70. What a gift to hear that it was most likely a natural consequence of the healing process in my brain, I'll admit that it took me a while to wrap my head around this information. And as the doctor had predicted, a lot of those things have improved as the injury continued to heal. I started to tell people close to me who often reacted strangely, so I stopped sharing. At least I knew what was going on. I went back to therapy and found a new understanding of what I'd felt over the years. Things started to make sense. Something else that had helped was completely unrelated to what I'd gone through but would have a big impact on my emotional journey. I had begun to do the research needed to gather the information about my Italian ancestry, to see if I would qualify for citizenship - if I achieved my dream of moving there. As far as documents, I would end up hiring an immigration attorney to do that work which was impossible to do from London. But what I uncovered along the way was better than gold. I learned that some of the stories I'd heard all my life about the people ( mostly women) in my family tree were... well - they were wrong. I really wanted to see if I could solve those mysteries, but it would turn out that I'd have to wait almost ten years before I would have the time and space to actually try. 
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Oh...right. A dark and stormy night. In Arizona, which alone itself is a strange thing. It was late October, and I was wondering what the heck I would write about if I chose to tackle the November writing challenge. I was swimming every day in the pool that noone but me seemed to use in the early morning, but on this day I woke up to grey skies and what felt like impending rain. And I had some kind of emotional hangover from the strangest dream. A woman I couldn't really see, but who felt like me somehow, had walked into an old timey sort of cafe. In front of her were 4 women, seated at a table, dressed in the clothing of the time. I'd guess early 1900's? I didn't recognize them. After a moment of staring and silence, a beautiful woman dressed in black, took off her hat and revealed a mass of dark hair piled high on her head. She spoke with a strong accent. Italian, I thought. Anyway, it wasn't the accent that got me ( or at least the me in the dream). It was what she said, in a soft but direct voice. "Well, you finally arrived. We've been waiting for you." And then of course, I woke up. I carried bits of that dream around with me all day. The wooden table, the glasses of wine, cups of coffee, the strange clothing of each of those women. I wondered what it meant, who they were? Or was it just a dream brought on by too much time alone worried about too many things? Later, the rain came, and even at five o'clock, the skies darkened. The palm trees outside the sliding glass doors shook when the wind grew stronger. I tried to distract myself with television, but I finally turned off the lights and just listened to the rain. I must have dozed off, curled up in the big leather recliner, when a roll of thunder woke me. I switched on the lamp next to me and said out loud - the grandmothers. And somehow I knew what I would write about. And why. You might think it was smooth sailing from there. But nothing that seems so easy rarely is. I was in for a ride full of bumpy roads, but with the best companions. And I was about to get to know them really well.  Ispent my last six and a half years in the corporate world living out a dream of traveling through Europe, riding on trains to places out of books on a whim, and oh yes... publishing my first book . Forgetting Andrew is a 'fictionalized memoir"... a genre I might have invented. There were people I didn't want my words to harm, even if they were true, but I needed to tell the story. The book was finished when I arrived in London, but I spent the next year and a half editing while adjusting to life in the UK. Let's just be clear, even though they 'speak English' there was a definitie learning curve to what words mean in a different country. And boy, did I learn. In February of 2017, I had made the decision to self publish, which might sound easier than navigating the very intricate world of commercial publishing, agents, managers and the like, but it was still an arduous journey. When I hit 'publish' the exhale was audible, and freeing. And the book has had a lovely little life, and I get notes regularly from readers that find something in my story that gives them hope. And that was my mission all along. So, I call it a win. The global organization was going through an enormous restructure and when I needed to choose whether to stay or go, somehow it felt right to move on to my next chapter. At 65, I was ready to retire from my corporate life, coach privately and most of all- move to Italy. What would happen next would not change my plans - but definitely impact the timing of everything. On January 9th of 2020, a truck pulled into my London driveway and loaded up every single piece of furniture and personal detritus and set off for Milan. Two days later I flew to Milan to meet the truck and oversee the unloading into a 'maggazzino' (storage facility) as I needed to return to London for a round of goodbyes, turn in my keys to the London flat, and fly back to the US to sell a house and spend a couple of months on what I affectionately referred to as my 'farewell family and friends tour'. I knew once I was settled into retirement life in Italy, my visits would be few and far between. Four days after I arrived in the US, Italy was in lockdown. Covid had arrived. It would take until March before the entirety of America followed suit. I'd managed to sell the house, fly to Florida for a dear friend's son's wedding, stop in Atlanta to finally meet a longtime client and mom to a close friend, on to Memphis to hug a special coach friend, and then to NYC to see clients, Amherst to meet with my book editor and writer friends, Ohio and Chicago to kiss my brother and his family and a young man I'd mentored , now grown and running his dream restaurant . The next stop was Indiana for a quick visit with a former colleague that turned out to be the end of my travel or the next 18 months. Yes, I know that sounds like a lot. But short hop flights had been cheap and I was feeling so fresh and full of energy for this new chapter. And when my brother in California called on March 13 to tell me I shouldn't come ( this was to be my next stop) I had to agree. Covid was now popping up everywhere. And I had to figure out where to go next, Some forever friends in Las Vegas had dogs and a guest room and told me to come before the airports closed down. I think I was on the last flight out of Indianapolis, my head spinning. We all have a Covid story or five, I know - and for the most part I'm grateful that mine wasn't as awful as so many. I worried about my kids who worried about me. I worried about my elderly family who I'd seen when I was in Florida, but knew they were following all the advice. After six weeks in Vegas, my friend offered to drive me to Arizona where my kids were and I happily accepted. They'd been so kind but I knew I was teetering on the tightrope of overstaying my welcome. I started out in an airbnb that was overpriced but midway between the two kids. I found out quickly that I intensely disliked high rise apartment living. In a month or so ,I found a little patio home with a garden and a pool that no one used and made a move. Bonus, the garden came with a parade of wild cats that arrived daily. More daily after I started providing daily buffets. It was such a strange time and place. I'm sure if you are reading this you are nodding, shaking your head and maybe sinking into memories that aren't wonderful. I'm so sorry, if those three years of worry and fear cost you someone you loved. I know that kind of loss. In the spring of 2021, still in that little house, I got a call from my Atlanta friend's husband. They'd spent a day with me less than a year before. Brenda, my sweet Georgia peach of a friend who could light up your day just the way she answered a call was gone. Covid took her in less than a week. Her husband's voice as he gave me the news felt like little bursts of heartbreak. His, and mine. I'm so grateful we had that day. I spent August of 2020 till May of 2021 in that little house. I worked text banking for Biden during the months before the election (as penance for my years as an expat) and set up a little makeshift studio to paint. I coached healthcare professionals for free, because what they were dealing with was unprecedented in the modern world. And then I celebrated when Biden won and wondered what to do next. In the US, every November there is a sort of event slash challenge for writers. " NaNoWriMo" (National November Writing Month).There is no competition, no prize, it's just a challenge - to see if you can write fifty thousand words in a month. It sounded impossible to me. It had taken six years to write my first book. And fifty thousand words is more than a short story but less than a novel. Then again, I had nothing but time in November of 2020. But I wasn't sure that I had an idea. That all changed one actual 'dark and stormy night'. And I bet you'd like to know how.  I would get inspiration from the women in my family. But granny's wisdom was a spark that would grow... an ember that would grow inside my mind as I spent the next six and a half years embracing my truest calling. Working in a variety of capacities in London, I learned that everyone has both obvious, schooled talents, and innate abilities and instincts they bring to their personal and work life. And at sixty, I started to realize my own, and how I could build a life that allowed me to use all of my gifts, and not just manage....but thrive. I started openly coaching within the corporate environment and built a reputation among leaders that I could help them coach their teams. Together we built programs that helped them do that.I loved watching their people grow and the business profit from the care that they felt. The fear that I'd felt when I completed my coach training around finding clients ebbed away when I began to realize that for me, at least - 'the work, was in the walk'. By which I mean, the clients found me in the everyday goings on of my work, my new friendships, and the simple interactions with strangers in my daily life. I will admit one thing. It surprised me almost every time. By nature, I'm an introvert. Ok, well not exactly what most people think of as an introvert. I come alive when I'm leading a group, teaching a class, or speaking to an audience. But when I finish... and if I'm lucky, the applause starts .. I sort of black out. The attention doesn't feel like it belongs to me. ( I know, my therapist is working on this lol) But that all changes when I see someone in distress. Once, on a long tube ride from my home in a north London village to Heathrow airport, I realized a woman sitting across from me was silently crying. It went on for a while and I found myself leaning over and touching her arm lightly. She looked up, startled somewhat and I whispered..' Can I help?' And then slowly, our eyes locked, she told me she felt stuck. She needed to make a difficult decision and she just didn't know where to begin. I told her when I felt that way sometimes the only thing that helped was getting very quiet. I would go out into the fresh air and try to find something green, a tree, a park, a bench near a bush. I would just focus on breathing and letting my mind get very still. And then I would listen for any thought that came to me. And usually, it came through loud and clear and I would know. Sometimes, I told her, it could take a few times, because it's hard to get very still in this very busy and noisy world. She was nodding, and smiling. Then she said. " This is my stop." I went to lean back, and smiled back at her but she took both my hands in hers, and whispered. "I think you just maybe changed everything for me." And then she got off the train. And I knew that this what that thought I'd had meant. My work would show up. And all I had to do was keep my heart, and my eyes - open.  What happened next? Well, the truth is, a lot. And most of it was not what I expected. First of all, I figured at fifty-nine , with more than thirty years of work experience under my belt, entrenched in my third real career and loving the way I could use my creative energy and everything I'd learned in my daily work, I was totally ready for this. Yes, I know, I was moving to another country. A different culture. But seriously, how hard could it be? They spoke english after all. And I could not have been more wrong. And despite what I thought - there were more lessons to learn. I managed a small group of twenty somethings from the UK, Australia, New Zealand and had my first experience with mean girls. And I do mean - MEAN. I arrived full of my often annoyingly positive approach which simply didn't fly. And that sent me into a spiral of lost confidence, outsider syndrome and general anxiety. Along with that, I was seriously missing my grown children, dealing with the very different business culture in the UK and second guessing the whole move. What was I thinking? I knew noone but my new colleagues, and the VP that had hired me was about to leave. I spent a lot of lonely evenings in my small studio apartment in Kensington trying to decide whether to stay or go home. One night, I was sorting through an envelope of photos I'd brought from home and pinning them up on a corkboard in my tiny kitchen to cheer me up. And thats when I remembered - sort of - who I am. I have this photo now, in my beautiful flat above Lake Como , where I spend my days writing, walking along the lake in the twelfth century village where I live. It is a picture of my eighty year old granny, hands on hips, elbows akimbo, in the midst of telling someone exactly what she was thinking. And though most people knew only the quiet side of this tiny Italian - American woman, I was lucky enough to know all of her. And most importantly, I knew exactly what she would think of my current quandry. I could hear her voice as clear as a bell, as a smile spread across my face. And I realized in that moment, that I wasn't lost, or alone, no matter where I was in the world. Because I came from the kind of woman who had navigated a life filled with challenges, with far less advantage than I'd had, yet always found a way. And whose love for me never wavered, even when I made mistakes. And somehow, knowing that she had and would always believe in me, made me let go of the fear, and leap into the abyss. And guess what? I didn't fall. I flew.  My granny, Anna Maria Santos Caputo
To understand how I got here, to the grandmothers, I need to tell you a little bit about me. I wrote about my own history in my first novel, "Forgetting Andrew", a sort of fictionalized memoir that was born out of need to sort out all the colored threads of my own past. Let me tell you, there is nothing like writing your life story to really figure out what is holding you hostage. The six year journey of writing that book happened as organically as possible, since I was a single mother of two kids, born ten years apart, with a demanding career as an executive coach for a global publisher. To be honest, that wasn't my job title, but after a few years moving from human resource roles, to management development to global program manager I realized that this was what I spent about 90 percent of my time doing. It was a natural ability I'd not realized I had, until it became obvious to everyone but me. As that role became more formal, I took it seriously. People came to count on me to help them figure out everything from managing difficult conversations, to difficult employees, to career changes. I loved the work, but somewhere around 2013, something shifted. People began bringing a lot of their personal issues - from managing life with kids, and through massive changes, illness, and well, - you name it. And suddenly I felt like I wasn't fully equipped to keep going on natural instinct, common sense and my own life experience. So I decided to get some help. I signed up for Life Coach training with the Martha Beck organization. And what I learned -(among the basics of helping others navigate their lives) was that I'd been skirting a lot of my own issues. Yes - life coach training turned out to be a very expensive form of therapy. But worth every penny. My childhood, teen years and adult life had been filled with trauma, from a dysfunctional parental dynamic, to the loss of my first love in a tragic accident, to divorce and an abusive partnership. I'd worked through much of my leftover issues during the training, and felt ready to add 'Life Coach' to my resume when I completed my requisite 1200 hours of practice coaching and passed my oral test. And then, like every newly minted coach, I wondered - "Now what?". I had no idea where the work would come from - outside of the job I already had that is. And there was one more thing that added confusion to my new skills. I'd just been offered a transfer to London to manage a global manager development project for a year. Stay tuned to find out in 'Episode 2' - what happened next.  |
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