The third and final story on the theme of change from last Summer. With this written the hand is largely full, although there is always room for more change. The first two tales involved change that was anticipated, invited even, although without knowing of or controlling its nature. This story is of unexpected change. Which is almost all change.
We flew into Pisa. With suitcases that had grown in size as our family and children did the same. We’d booked a large car to make sure we could definitely fit them in. A flummoxed Portuguese taxi driver a year or two before and an uncomfortable transfer with heavy suitcases on our knees taught us that lesson.
Setting off towards the mountains, all persons and luggage safely tucked inside our deliberately large car, we began. Winding our way along the coastal flat lands before the rise of the hills, we left the city where it was and moved along increasingly narrow roads. Multi-lane became single lane became old lanes designed for carts not cars. Corners became bends and then tight switch backs testing my driving. Not many switch backs in Lancashire.
Drama-Dharma-Duomo – Gavin-Birchall
After an hour of interesting scenery and admirably calm navigation, the instruction was to turn off the road into our secluded Tuscan villa. Simple. Sounds simple. But no. Not simple. Ascending and turning at the same time there was a break in the crash barriers that looked as if it led over the side of the mountain. It did lead over the side of the mountain. This was the entrance. Pulling up and in and trying to see over the bonnet of our deliberately large car I squeezed the wing mirrors between carved rock, wooden fence and steep drop. Each of us holding our breath.
Edging forward with mere centimetres to spare and a non-refundable deposit to protect, we lurched and squeaked and slid down into the trees to what appeared to be a small parking area. Our gracious and friendly host, all the way from Lancashire no less, offered to move our deliberately large car down the even narrower track towards the villa. With frayed nerves I gratefully agreed.
We walked on foot the last thirty metres to a view that took our breath away for a second time in less than an hour. This was space. This was stillness. This was our home for a week. Nothing but forested hills as far as we could see. We settled into settling down and settling our systems.
Under-the-scene – Gavin-Birchall
As the week went on we didn’t get used to the driving. Not really. We sat around the little pool and read books and rested and talked. We swam and played. We went slowly. So, very, slowly. The landscape, the architecture, the decor, the gardens, the weather and the roads saw to that. Nothing was pulling on us strongly enough to shake us into greater activity.
Of course, we braved the roads again for a journey to the supermarket. Resulting in some enjoyable afternoons spent cooking regional recipes from the books on the shelves. Our son spent three days making bread. Fresh pizzas were cooked in the wood fired oven. We visited Barga, the medieval town at the top of the hill and drank espresso on ancient balconies. By car and on one occasion by foot. Down the valley side, across the valley, and up the other side. Avoiding snakes. With the promise of Barga at its most beautiful. It is beautiful from every angle but adventuring together as a family was more beautiful.
We visited Lucca, a larger medieval town with innumerable towers as far as the eye could see and city walls wide enough to ride bikes on. We had a drink with our hosts, listened to the porcupines rustling in the woods and met their amusing dog who sat like he wanted to be a flower. He was a lovely boy. We watched the sunset from the Duomo di San Cristoforo with its 360 degree views of the hills and the glow of the light will forever warm me.
Forever-warm-me – Gavin-Birchall
But mostly we did very little and allowed slowness and fullness and togetherness to take us. There was a balcony overlooking the hills where I meditated. As we approached the end of the week, I had one more drive in me and felt the draw of the unknown. So I browsed the leaflets and maps in the villa. There were so many spectacular places to visit and so many compelling photographs that it was hard to decide. So I picked the one with the least appealing image and the most appealing name.
On a road that spans the Turret di Gallicano in the direction of the Grotta Del Vento (Wind Cave) there is a special place. Hidden high above the road, carved deep into the rock of a towering cliff, is the Eremo di Calomini. The Hermitage of Calomini. Not an obvious choice for a family trip but something called me there. We set off. The Italian roads did their particular kind of roading and I drove their way, encountering new levels of intensity. I’m glad we didn’t try this at the beginning of the week.
Around 1000 AD a shepherdess had a vision of the Madonna in a small cave at the base of the cliff. The local people spent countless hours chiselling at the rock to create a sacristy where they could worship. More cells were hewn into the strata and medieval hermits sought solitude and contemplation there. In the 17th Century a series of buildings were constructed around the caves and have remained ever since.
The-cliff-of-sanity – Gavin-Birchall
With no idea of what to expect we explored and found the sacristy. We saw signs suggesting (it was Italy after all) a tour of the caves was to start shortly. We waited in case it did. Not long after the promised time a middle aged, Italian man with long black ponytail and simple black shirt appeared. There were eight waiting in total.
What followed was unexpected. This was a family day out on a family holiday. Not the usual setting for what we think of as spiritual experiences. Our guide led us into the first cell. Where one of the hermits, still residing at the hermitage, spend each night in prayer. He lit a candle. He closed the door. Light departed the world. Save for the single, flickering flame of a small white candle. It sat before an icon of Jesus. The kind that is believed to have been created miraculously. ‘Not by the hands of man’. An acheiropoieton. A replica no less of the ‘Image of Edessa’ or ‘Mandylion’. We were invited to sit on the benches around the edges of the space.
Then two were called to kneel in the centre, on small wooden benches, facing the icon and the light. After a pause I volunteered. Of course I did. Then my daughter did too. Side by side we knelt. Nothing happened fast. Italian time. Hermitage time. Deep time. Our guide explained he would play some Christian choral music in Aramaic, the prevailing language in the time and place of Jesus. And that we would all be still, silent and contemplate for a time. We did. I sank into the profound silence of this space and these sounds. Within the mountain. The weight and mass of the rock surrounding us had a presence that was overwhelming. Overwhelming and deeply reassuring. As we sat, and I gazed at the light, and the icon gazed at me, I felt a warmth of welcome that was unique and so gently encouraging that tears filled my eyes. For some moments time stopped and everything was just so. Every worry I had ever had, every fear I had felt, every weight I still carry were released and held beyond what I think of as me.
We had visited this place by chance. Because I was not quite ready to return to our home in England. Because I had been drawn here despite how poorly it compared with the other places in the leaflet. Yet I was surrounded by my family. My wife. My son and daughter. And in that moment, I knew, before thought, that I was surrounded by all that exists and knelt within and as an inseparable part of it. There were also four slightly wary tourists wondering why the kneeling English man was crying.
The-flower-bearer – Gavin-Birchall
We had visited the Eremo di Calomini accidentally but that is not all. A special place chosen for solitude and contemplation for over a thousand years. I see now that our week in the mountains, alongside each other, in relative seclusion, self-sufficient and away from the complexities and troubles of the world, was itself a hermitage all of our own. When there is nowhere else to be we are together. This place allowed that. It was unplanned and unambiguous.
Together-in-the-light – Gavin-Birchall
We don’t need to visit far off places to find where we belong or to fill our hearts desires. They are often just where we are, despite, and maybe because of the push and pull of relationship that partnerships and parenting and growing older together involves. If we can be in that together with good humour and companionship, then we are living at large.
Change is good. Change is unavoidable. Avoiding it hurts. More or less. Eventually.