I said a while back that the last blog I wrote in Italy wasn’t going to be the last blog I wrote about Italy.
Although most everything from that period of my life is no longer prevalent today, that doesn’t mean everything is simply gone with the wind.
It’s actually quite the opposite.
The more that time passes, the more I realize everything is still very much alive within me.
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I want to start off by saying: I’m not looking for a relationship. In fact, for the first time in my life, I’m not even interested in one. I have zero urge to date right now, which doesn’t mean if the “right one” came along I would turn him away, but it also means I’m not actively seeking out anyone, either.
However, there are times (more times than I’d like to admit), I find myself coming back to the moments of love I experienced in Italy. I don’t quite know how to explain it, but even before my relationship ended, I knew I’d survive off the feelings it supplied me with for a long time afterward.
Half a year later, I can confidently say I was right. I still carry the prominent feelings of pure love, respect, and admiration I experienced with me today.
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One night in Italy, when I was deep in the throes of contemplating how I’d weave my love for storytelling into my life’s purpose, my boyfriend said to me, “Why don’t you write about our love story? I give you permission.”
I thought about what he said long after the conversation died down. I knew I wasn’t going to write a novel about our relationship or even base a fictional story off the premise of our love, but at the same time, I knew I’d always write about us in some way, shape, or form.
The truth is, the moments we shared together seeped into who I was and imprinted on my life in such a way that they’ll live within me forever. Even though we are no longer together, I still embody the teachings of that time, and I will continue to even when we are both with other people, even when I am the mother of another man’s children, even when I am old and gray and the memories from my Italian adventure begin to fade.
I can’t go back and be the me I was before I met him. I can’t hop, step, or jump over the months we spent together, and simply move on without the lessons and love we shared. That’s not possible, nor would I want it to be.
Those memories are some of my fondest, so although that time has come and gone, the memories are still pulsating inside of me.
Which… is the reason why I’ve been aching to share the moments that have been playing on repeat in my head. Aching to let my love for this art paint the picture of what it feels like all these months later. I’ve been hesitant to share them because society says leave the past in the past, move on, let go.
And I don’t not agree with that. I still vouch for the fact that you should keep your feet moving and give your attention to the present, but I think both focuses can persist without nulling and voiding the other.
Right?
What happens if I let go of the moment when we were in the grocery store and I saw him checking out a single serving of cheesecake. I walked up behind him while he was reading the label on the jar when he asked, “Should I get you this for dessert?” and I answered, “No, that’s okay. I don’t need it.” Days later, when we had finished dinner, he pulled out the cheesecake he snuck into his grocery cart that day, put it on the table in front of me, and said, “For you.”
What happens if I forget someone once hid desserts in his grocery cart just to surprise me days later with a sweet treat after cooking dinner? Will I settle for no cherry on top next time?
I don’t want to forget how he offered to make our meals (mostly dinner) for three months, and on the nights he cooked, I’d get up to clean, just to be met with, “What are you doing? Sit back down. I’ll clean.” It wasn’t once or twice or three times. It was every single time he made dinner.
In my head, I always assumed responsibilities were supposed to be split 50/50. You cook, I clean. I cook, you clean. It never even crossed my mind someone would voluntarily give 100% just so I could take the nights off.
I want to tell my daughters one day about how he took off work to walk hand-in-hand with me along the water, drove hours north to a chalet where we watched the sun shine and the snow fall all within 24 hours, hiked to the top of the Italian Alps and ate mortadella sandwiches as we basked in early summer’s warmth.
I want to tell them how I was nervous getting on the back of his bike, but he took my hands and held them tight as we jetted off down the hairpin turns on the side of the mountain. Or how I mentioned one singular time that I loved fresh-squeezed orange juice and then woke up one morning to a bag of oranges on my kitchen table.
I didn’t experience that love just for the heck of it. I experienced that love so I would know what it feels like for my soul to be handled with the utmost care. To not only hold out for that treatment again in the future but to learn how to give it to myself, too.
But I’m going to forget these things if I don’t actively recall them. I’m human, and being human means I only have oh so much room to store all the memories I’m bound to make. I don’t want to push out the reasons that made me believe in love again and give precious space to all the surface-level frivolousness that doesn’t deserve real estate in this head of mine.
That’s what’s going to take the place of these precious memories if I don’t make it a point to breathe life into them from time to time, and Lord knows I can’t have that.
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I’ll be the first to say: the past is in the past. We have to appreciate what’s on the road ahead because that’s where we’re heading.
Except, there are a select few times when the past hits so hard it stains your future, and not in the bloodshed kind of way—in the orange juice on your white t-shirt kinda way. The cherry on top of a surprise cheesecake kinda stain.
Amazing read Taylor as always so great to hear u are doing well,continue to write,love listening to your blogs!!!