Distance Run
3.03 miles: the distance I travel to
escape the monastery, to abandon all community commitments and passive
aggressive comments about the cleaning schedule. Orvieto is a small town, but
the monastery is even smaller. On this Monday afternoon, avoiding my nineteen
other peers proved impossible as I bump into a few in the kitchen, a few more
in the sala, another three in the
classroom. And in each room, there is someone from my cleaning group, ready to
comment on how my hands are holding my iPod instead of a mop from the cleaning
closet. Yes, yes! I’ll do it later. I
know, I know. Yeah… I’ll do it.
Before
lunch, the entirety of our hour-long chapter meeting is spent discussing the
cleaning schedule for the monastery and the new rotation for the week. I sit,
listen, and clutch my growling stomach and while I contemplate my hatred of
mopping stone floors covered in dust. My crankiness increases as chapter
meeting continues and Professor Doll gives another concluding passage from
Nouwen: The careful balance between silence and words, withdrawal and
involvement, distance and closeness, solitude and community forms the basis of
the Christian life and should therefore be the subject of our most personal
attention.
I’m silent. I’m distant when I cross the
monastery courtyard and ignore a shout from the window above: “Hey Megan – I’ll
leave the mop over here for you when you get back.” The speed of my steps
increase as I pass through the iron gate and (accidentally) slam it behind me,
breaking into a run as I turn the corner down the main corso. A few conservative Italians disdainfully glance at my
radical running pants, probably wondering what the blue lettering of “Gordon
Field Hockey” means on my grey t-shirt. But Gordon Field Hockey is what I need
to return to in a few months, fit and ready to lead as a captain – days of
gelato and pasta won’t get me there, though.
My Asics strike the cobblestones and I
eventually slow and then quickly cross the street, making my way closer to the
stone archway that separates the countryside from the cliff of the town. I just
barely make it past an older couple, a few tourists, and a biker, before I
reach the steep path and gasp. Huge tears escape my red eyes and my pace
changes to a slow jog, coughing and gasping as I sob. My chest heaves and my
eyes sting, blurring my vision as I trip on a loose cobblestone. Mondays. Even
in Italy, Mondays are the worst.
Guilt seeps in at once as I mentally
complain about my troubles, because I know that at the end of the day, I’ll
receive emails and messages from friends and family asking about how wonderful
my study abroad experience must be, one month into the program. Here I am,
sobbing on the outskirts of Orvieto, completely failing at my plan to complete
a good workout before dinner – and cleaning.
Is this
solitude? Crying on foreign cobblestones, wondering where God’s now
absent-voice is and questioning if my relationship with Him was left in
America, back in the churches with open communion and English sermons. I long
for friends that know me, for people that really
understand me. I don’t want to pretend to be interested in the weekly cleaning
schedule or work through any community problems. My silence, my distance, they
amplify my anger and I crave something different. I don’t want to go home, but
I miss the idea of comfort, of contentment in friendships. This task of
building nineteen other relationships overwhelms my introverted self, as there
is always a friendship to work on. At breakfast, at lunch, at dinner – with
every bite of pasta comes a new basic question about my major, my siblings, and
my home state. I’ll politely smile and then immediately check to see if there’s
anything in my teeth, anxious to scare away my new friends.
I reach the opposite side of Orvieto and
begin the slow turn around the hilltop town, making my way to the long stretch
of cliff that will lead me back. What am I supposed to tell my parents when
they message me tonight: Italy is great.
I skipped cleaning and cried about how much I want to come home. Oh, and I feel lonely even when I’m
surrounded by other people.
I turn onto the long, paved walking path
and my breath catches. I pull my headphones from my ears and move closer to the
edge of the cliff, leaning on the stonewall. Knowing that my iPhone could never
do it justice, my now dry eyes widen and I try my best to memorize what I know
will eventually become a blurry memory, stuck in my journal simply as “I saw
the best sunset EVER!!!” I try to turn away and finish my route, but I continue
to look back as the unreal landscape sits as a photo shoot backdrop. Even
better than the best Google images search for a “sunset desktop pic” couldn’t
rival these colors on the cliffs of Via
del Popolo – one of the only streets in Orvieto reserved for pedestrians.
Or in my case, reserved for runners who are avoiding their community cleaning
duties.
I jog on and reach the basement studio of
the monastery and knock on the door – I never run with my front door key. Tyler
opens the door and shouts “Ciao Zmeg!” (A nickname they had given me after the
Italian refrigerator company, Zmeg). I quickly move through the studio and up
the stairs, feeling refreshed but still slightly apprehensive about bumping
into anyone from my cleaning group in the halls. I dart into the kitchen for
some water – much needed after my tears and sweat.
“Megan! We’ve been waiting for you! Let’s
have tea time now, we made you a cappuccino.” Laura grins and motions for me to
move into the refectory to sit with her, Sara, and Jenna. Jenna pulls out a
chair for me and Sara passes the biscotti.
I smile and thank her, feeling ready to rejoin – the best conclusion for a 3.03
mile exile from home.
