That’s life, that’s life. That’s what all the people say. I’m riding high in April, shot down in May.

When I was a kid, those were the lyrics that rang out of my father’s shower. They tipped me off there would be some blows along the way.

And there have been.

I can’t remember exactly when it was that I was first struck with how relevant and moving the song really is.

I’m also struck with how strongly the song affected my life, how well I internalized its message. As much as I like to think I’ve intentionally shaped my life, I see how my dad, an immigrant, showed me how a rigorous work ethic, a firm belief in physical action, and the need to rise after the knock-downs, eventually gets you to where you want to be. For him, all that lay ahead in America was digging in and working hard. And, like most immigrants, he was happy to have the work.

And why, when I hear my friends whine about our city’s problems without ever considering getting involved politically—even at a basic, grassroots level—or attempt a goal once or twice before giving up and moving on, I want to ask, what is it you are after here? Where is your commitment, your dedication?

There’s the word I need: dedication. It makes me think of all the people I know who have either been to Italy or want to visit.

Why? Well, one reason is to be charmed by the past. Trying to absorb history during a ten-day vacation is a good metaphor for trying to keep other things at bay: a lack of long-established commitments in one’s own life, for one.
So I try not to cringe when my foodie friends go on about Italian tradition—the length of time people take to not only
to prepare food, but to eat it. I force a lot of smiles.

I don’t say how the Italians I know are far less enamored by the past then we think. They seldom romanticize it. They’ve worked hard to live in the present. How else could they dig themselves out of such a war-torn past? My friends, and, I suspect, most Americans, don’t seem to understand this is why Europeans linger over five-course meals, savoring, holding on to the present as if to a mane.

This live-in-the-present mind-set became my own. Every time I experience a loss, I shift my focus to the present. It’s invigorating. Sometimes it even works.

My dad sought upward mobility in terms of career, sure, but misgave this quality in relation to relationships. Recalling this, I realize I’ve been thinking a lot about another trait that helped form who I am: loyalty.
I am loyal. In the Old World sense. I’ve remained loyal to my marriage, to friends willing to weather the storms together, to my writing always, even when my soul felt drained.

Nevertheless, loyalty is not an easy topic to tackle even for me. Especially when the next new thing seems like our culture in a nutshell.

Now, I see how expecting an Old World level of loyalty in a new city like Seattle that is, just now, trying to define itself as an urban center, has tripped me up. In big and painfully idealistic ways. I tell you, it’s cost me. I’ve been guilty of expecting way too much from friendships, deeply attached was I to the idea of making them my “family.”
My only wish is that while my father was setting a loyal example, he could have enjoyed life more. But, that’s another subject.

Or is it?

I think it’s why—it is why—I moved as far west as possible, and why my Northwest friends have had such an influence on me: because I want to look at life through the eyes of those who aren’t running from something, people moored to something other than getting ahead in mind.

So it seems I’ll always be of two minds, straddling two worlds: old world loyalty vs. new world freedom from loyalty’s constraints.

Which makes this easier to admit: Writing is where I’m most at home. On days (Iike this one) when I don’t know what I’m doing in this city or where I’m supposed to head, writing helps me remember until I can hear the woman inside me sing That’s life, that’s life….

Then, compassionately, she whispers: Here is as much a home as anywhere. And it’s a solid place.

marylousanelli.com