Lingering

I'm nearing the end. The urge to pause overwhelms me, so I stop for a moment.  This is the place to linger.

I am 75 pages away from finishing Cheryl Strayed's novel Wild which chronicles her solo 1100 mile hike along the Pacific Crest Trail in 1995. She was 26. She has gently brought me along the trail and her life in such a way that I have been lulled into the journey forgetting, like all journeys, this too must end.

But not yet.

I am a lingerer.  In sorrow or joy, I find a strong pull to pause. It could be defined as a moment to be in the moment.  Ah, I wish I was that evolved.  I'm not.  I linger because I know what I'm dealing with versus the next moment where I don't.  In the case of Wild, I don't want it to end.

Often I linger not because I am appreciating the moment but because I fear what may or may not come next.  It isn't a terrific life skill.  It can be a pseudonym for avoiding. It's the old devil you know besting the devil you don't know. In that vein, I am a repeat lingerer.

Sometimes, just sometimes, lingering serves me well.

As the grandchild of Italian immigrants, I learned that lingering was the thing you did after each meal and before you left someone's home. It was second nature.  Doorways and dining room tables were the places we paused to stay gathered as a unit.  It's primitive - gathering around the hearth, campfire, or wherever early families ate. 

Several years ago I traveled to Sicily with my folks and niece to visit my dad's extended family and to see the house where his father was born and raised.  I expected to learn about living in Sicily.  I learned more about how similar my extended family and I are.  We resemble one another, we share the same hand motions and verbal intensity in conversation, and we are bossy, loud, and hospitable.  We marveled at our family tree whose branches crossed land and seas. 

My European relatives always take time to linger.  They raise after-meal time to high art. Italians drive their cars like demons ablaze, but they slam on the breaks when it comes to sitting at the table.  Conversation, espresso, fruit, pastry and anisetta keep everyone at the table in luscious lingering.

Passeggiata
 

Another form of this primordial pause is the passeggiata (pah-sah-JOT-tah) Every Sunday evening around dusk in many small Italian towns it is the time for passeggiata - a collective saunter through the streets. Families, couples, singles stroll down narrow streets closed off to cars greeting neighbors, meeting friends, sipping coffee, eating gelato, heading nowhere, being everywhere.

It is the ultimate "see and been seen" scene.

I recall watching this unfold from my cousin's Castelbuono balcony, drinking in the sweetness of it all.  As we strode through town everything emanated warmth, family, togetherness.

This need to linger extends beyond the home mealtime table.  The evening before we met our relatives, the four of us ate at a quiet seaside restaurant.  Business was slow and so were we.  After dessert, we asked for the check.  We not only insulted the waiter but most of the employees with our very American request.  After much arm waving and spitfire translating by my dad and niece, we were admonished to aspetta (wait). 

It was the first time I was yelled at because I was freeing up a table at a restaurant.  Once we agreed to stay, the self-satisfied smiles returned to the waitstaff and we lingered in the land of our ancestors.  It was a glorious hint at what was to come with our deliciously cordial relatives.

In her memoir, Cheryl Strayed sought out the solitude her trek offered. Yet, when she could spend time with fellow hikers at various stops along the trail, she lingered with fresh appreciation.  She cautiously welcomed time for togetherness. It offered an unexpected balance on her solo hike. I believe she embraced the Beatles' suggestion to "Let it be."

As I near the end of a really good read, I feel the familiar ache of losing something dear.  I hoard the moment.  It's like the end of a great vacation or an unexpected call from someone special.  Please don't end, please don't end - this is my prayer-like wish. 

Learning to let it be and accept the moment morphing into the next does not come easily.  But I am trying - trying to linger with less of a death grip and more of the gentle whisper of aspetta.