Sundays…it was a life lesson

 You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
     The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
     Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
     For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Khalil Gibran

It is Easter Sunday 2024, I awoke early, well before the sun, as the rain gently soaked the desert. The steam from my coffee rose like tendrils of smoke in the slightly chilled morning air, and my mind filled with memories of Easters, Christmas and even the ordinary Sundays of my past. I’m not quite sure what the trigger was, perhaps it was just that little voice that swirls around in my head, recalling random thoughts, ideas and memories that are never easily ignored. I made my way to the refrigerator, pulled out the tray of eggs, filled a mixing bowl with flour and began a ritual fueled by these memories. I separated the yolks from a few eggs and left about half a dozen out to get to room temperature. I am horrible with written recipes, so my cooking usually depends on my mood and details from past actions and observations. I made a well in the middle of the mound of flour as another coffee brewed. The eggs were placed in the flour well, and I gently mixed it all together with a fork, slowly and evenly. The early morning quiet usually enables my patience to reach its highest level. The mixture had started to come together, and I began to knead it into a consistent, malleable ball. As I was pressing and turning the dough, my head filled with the sounds and memories from my childhood. My emotions got the best of me as I hear my mom’s and my nonna’s voice, gently coaching my work.

Some time ago, I had a revelation (I may argue that maybe it was too late in life) that who I am is a cosmic conglomeration, comprised of my family: past and present, the ones I love, my friends, enemies, my positive and negative experiences. I have made choices for my life that are both traditional and unconventional, right or wrong (judged with the benefit of hindsight), all of those choices, their results, successes and failures, relationships broken and those nurtured, and the impact from or to anyone else involved, make up who I am today. 

I was born into a traditional Italian family that immigrated to Canada in the 1960’s. My fondest memories as a child were Sundays. I would spend some Sundays accompanying my grandfather, nonno Pasquale, to church, patiently sitting through an Italian mass, in an overly ornate cathedral, straining to keep my eyes open and hopelessly responding as best I could with the proper Italian or Latin phrases required by the service. I endured this hour because there was a ritual after the mass that I really looked forward to most. Nonno Pasquale would stop at his bakery and order a dozen pastries in a box with an additional two on top of the same box. Being diabetic, nonno wasn’t ‘allowed’ to have these treats, but we had a deal, if I kept my mouth shut, I could have one of the pastries on top of the box, before we got home. Nonno was a hardened man, brought up in the depression and the product of a hardscrabble life in Italy on a small mountainside farm. While his words could be harsh at times, I knew his heart to be warmer than he let on and he could tell stories for as long as the evening would allow, I loved him very much. The special thing about that was, as he spoke those stories to life, I watched my father listen intently, without distraction, no matter how often the story may have been repeated. He loved his dad too.

The saddest eyes I have ever seen in my life were my father’s when nonno passed. My Nonna, my father’s mother, was a kindly woman, putting up with my grandfather’s roughness and cursing. I never heard her complain when his card buddies were over, smoking up the basement and competing for the pennies on the table. She always waited patiently with his dinner ready no matter how late he returned from an offsite card game. She was a simple woman who loved hockey: the Toronto Maple Leafs and she was most animated when they were losing – at times I honestly believed her walking cane would be hurled at the TV when the hapless Leafs failed to deliver a win. She always worked harder than her frail body would allow and observed more than she spoke, never really judging anything or anyone, just letting it all be. 

On my mother’s side, the Sunday family gathering at my grandmother’s, nonna Elvira’s house, took place on the other side of the city. We were never really a church going family, so on most Sundays, by mid-morning, my parents, my brother and sister would pile into the car and make our way to the west side. We arrived at nonna’s making our way into the house via the side door, up a narrow flight of steps and into her kitchen, which was no bigger than a powder room you’d find in some of today’s more modern homes. It couldn’t have been bigger than 10 feet by 10 feet with the biggest counter space being the kitchen table which always sat right against the wall and served as the much-needed prep area for the weekly feast that was being prepared. Homemade tomato sauce would already be bubbling in a rolling boil on the stove by the time we arrived. Earlier that morning, while my grandmother went to mass (she never missed one), my mom’s dad, nonno Tulio was in charge of getting fresh bread from the bakery – he didn’t do church unless absolutely necessary. Paper bags filled with fresh baked, crusty Italian bread, still holding the heat from the baker’s oven, filled his arms. As soon as we entered, I immediately begged nonna to taste the sauce by dipping into it with some of the fresh bread. I eagerly tore the heal of the loaf as it still sat in its paper wrapper. My mother, mortified at my rudeness, yielded to my nonna, who immediately passed me a bowl to fill with more of the savoury sauce and handed me even more bread. It was breakfast…it was heaven. We would find my grandfather sitting on his spot on the couch in the living room. He was always in a neatly pressed shirt and pants, sometimes with a tie and either a sweater or cardigan. He was either cursing under his breath at the soccer game or the news broadcast from Italy. No matter what mood the television elicited from him, he always greeted us with the warmest smile, an unforgettable twinkle in his eyes and a smoldering cigarette clenched tenderly between his yellowed fingers. As the house filled up with the 5 families: aunts and uncles, each with at least two kids (my cousins), everyone assumed their roles. Food needed to be prepared, tables set up, barbeques lit, vegetables washed and chopped, wine to be decanted, beer chilling in the refrigerator…in no time at all, the small home became filled with wonderful aromas, the bustling activity of bodies: all shapes and sizes. A cacophonous clanging of pots and glassware, and voices heard at every level created a symphony of joy. Everyone had their role and my job was to help with table set up, carrying chairs up or down the stairs (depending on where we were eating) and drink delivery…beer and spirits before lunch, and wine during the meal. I had one main responsibility that could never be ignored and that was ensuring my grandfather’s glass was never empty during once he rose from the couch. Discussions ranged from the gossip of the day, and the latest current events, and any updates from relatives overseas. The only time it got quiet was when all were seated and the eating started, but this lasted only for a few minutes as everyone settled in and plates were full. Fresh made pasta, usually egg noodles, gnocchi, or lasagna, never from a box, but manifested from the endless bags of flour and other perfectly organized ingredients, all strategically stored in the small house until they were needed. The wine was homemade, freshly decanted from the large demijohns in the cantina that morning. A variety of meats: freshly butchered lamb, veal, homemade sausage, and select cuts of beef provided the main course, with fresh broccoli, garden vegetables and homegrown salad, doused perfectly with the right amount of olive oil and red wine vinegar (also homemade). For dessert, olives and fresh fennel with oil and spices were laid out for dipping. Lupine beans, oranges, pears, grapes, cherries from nonno’s tree, cantaloupe and watermelon served when in season, adorned the table as empty plates and platters were quickly replaced or refilled. A variety of cheeses and homemade salamis, prosciutto and other delicacies were laid out. It was never just a charcuterie board it was a charcuterie table. It would have been a sin to have an empty plate in front of you. There was never a shortage of home baked deserts or, on those special occasions, cakes and pastries from the bakery. Heaven. There are 52 Sundays in a year and this ritual took place at least 25 of those Sundays, not just on the special occasions or holidays…I’m not exaggerating, these events: this could have been any given Sunday. Those days were a life lesson in great food, cooperation, reciprocation, loyalty, duty, family and good manners. Family matters, good and bad were discussed and if necessary, any issues were resolved, or at least discussed openly. Specific family news was shared. Future special events were planned without a single note taken, yet always executed flawlessly – at least that’s how it seemed to me. Serious issues were handled by committee and the only things that weren’t tolerated were keeping secrets, and not being conscientious about any of the details of the day. Looking back, love was not always expressed with words, as much as it was with action. Your love for the family made it all possible. Your contribution to the preparation and the bounty on the table was the love language that brought the family together. Your participation expressed all that needed to be said…nothing more was necessary, all were welcomed.

My father’s side was a little different as those events were mainly reserved for special occasions, but the process was definitely repeated. All my paternal aunts and uncles were hard working and more free spirited. My father also had 4 siblings, two brothers and two sisters each with their families. They loved life a little differently but loved it just the same. They knew how to have a good time and worked like hell to make their lives what they are today – work hard, play hard was a balance that was constantly practiced. On my mother’s side, the work ethic was the same, but always more entrenched in tradition and familial ritual. All around me was joy, struggle and a respect for living as rich a life as possible regardless of wealth…money meant nothing without family. I could not have asked for better lessons than the ones I received while observing and participating in those environments.

As I grew into my later teen years and adult life, my foolishness kept me away. While I believe I espoused many of the lessons I had learned from my wonderful family, for some unknown reason, a misunderstood pull from the universe, blind ambition, teen spirit and ignorance…I grew apart from the wonderful teachers that surrounded me my whole life. My uncles, all like surrogate fathers, with lessons, both obvious and obscure, all equally invested in my growth. My aunts, each one special in their own way, showing me how to build a family, and make a home. My cousins, mostly all gregarious, each with endearing personalities, their own talents and gifts that filled so many rooms with laughter and kinship. I was surrounded with so much more than I really understood then, more than I could pay attention to…I did not possess the ability to really comprehend all that was right there for me to savor…I could taste the soup but ignored how it was made. I was distracted in so many ways.

“Look at this figure of a man on horseback, his turban with gold thread, striking a gallant pose, asking “Where is death? Show me!” 

He seems powerful, but he’s a fake. Death attacks from six sides. 

Hello jackass. Where’s your magnetism now, the famous temperament? The jokes you told, the carpets you gave relatives?” 

RUMI

My maternal grandmother died of lung cancer before I became a teenager – she never smoked – many things changed after that, but there was always an effort to keep up the Sunday lunch and since nonno refused to live anywhere but his own home, most of the time we still gathered there, or each of the families took turns hosting. I had already been living in Arizona when my grandfather became ill and passed. I had come to Toronto to pay my last respects to him as well as my ailing uncle in the hospital. My uncle died the day I arrived and the day after I left Toronto, my grandfather passed. While the era had begun to slowly fade, that period, subconsciously seemed to temporarily close my door to that world. I remember at the time, I couldn’t begin to imagine my mother’s grief: losing a younger brother and her father, less than 10 days apart. I couldn’t imagine my father trying to console himself, while helping my grieving mother. I couldn’t imagine it because I was consumed with everything else going on in my life, so I didn’t bother, and it became part of the blur. Instead, I took my parents’ strength for granted, convincing myself they would be fine and know exactly how to deal with all of that pain. They couldn’t possibly need my help… I went back to the ‘wheel’ to occupy my mind and focus on less important things. Those memories that I thought were long forgotten, banished to that part of my mind with the half-hearted promise to deal with all of it later, have rushed into my thoughts now. How many times had I ignored the moment? Was I really that heartless, or was I just not listening to my heart? Had my skin grown so thick? I had let the callous grow unattended. This was not how I was raised, but somehow this response overpowered what I would have thought would be my most basic instinct: take care of what my family really needed, instead of myself. 

I was wandering during that part of life, still trying to figure out who I was, without really knowing that was what I was doing, I acted on another instinct that seemed deeply ingrained in who I was…I spread myself thin enough so I would never have to focus on any one thing for too long. I had no time…work, kids, distraction filled my hours. As an older teen, my dad’s mother would comment that I was always rushing in as fast as I rushed out – her words, in Italian were delivered in a very melodic phrase, and her demeanor was always pleasant towards me so, at the time I thought it was cute; it always brought a smile to my face.  Now that memory makes me wonder, had I really learned anything?  How blurry was my vision then, as I squandered those valuable lessons? Somehow, I always thought I had better, or just other things to do during those years; work deadlines, kids, friends, parties, or sometimes it was nothing significant: I just needed to be somewhere else. Hindsight proved those excuses to be exactly what they were…all resounding lies told by a self-serving, egotistical man, too blurry-eyed to see or need the love and joy all around him. 

I know I cannot change the past and regret is a very useless emotion; it only causes pain, illness and most importantly, it doesn’t deliver a clear lesson. I cannot change what I have done, I can only choose to be thankful for those precious memories and become even more thankful that I can see them with a different perspective now. I believe that sometimes, we are blessed with memories that are more vivid, more clear than most. Those memories are filed specifically in our psyche so that when we are ready, at some point in our life, we can extract the true lessons they were meant to hold. When we are ready, the lessons become clear and obvious and if we are paying attention, they give us clarity on something we missed. They are the keys to growth, the foundations of wisdom and they force us to see our truth.

While I tried in some fashion to replicate those good times with my family, I often wonder, did they really get the best of me then, formed by those past experiences? Stricken with the inability to be in the moment at a young age, thankfully those memories seem a lot clearer to me now than they were while I was there. I could succumb to feelings of regret for being so ignorant, so unaware, so irreverent…but it is the past. Instead, I choose to cherish those memories and receive the lessons I missed.

I have always believed that growth came from reaching beyond my comfort zone and looking for more but for some reason, I too often conflated that with the need for a complete shift away from everything I had known, replaced with striving to start again with a clean break…but it never really was or is ever that clean. Whether that strategy resulted in success or failure is irrelevant now, unless it brings about a different perspective, a clearer vision of what beginning again should look like. I cannot erase my mistakes, nor do I want to render them useless artifacts in the most broken parts of my mind. I need those lessons now and they will hopefully be used often, if it’s not too late.

The blessing: those are my memories, my reference points and I have those beautiful familial teachers to draw from and hopefully…always strive to do better. While regret may be a useless or deleterious emotion, memories of all experiences should never be forgotten or ignored, they should move me forward with the wisdom they offer…if I’m willing to face them honestly.

“It is not enough to spend your life turning bread into dung…

We are pawing through manure to find pearls. 

There are people with the light of God on them. 

Serve those. Don’t trivialize any suffering.

I say this to myself. I am that mounted man, his illusion. 

How long shall I keep pointing to others? …

RUMI