Benvenuto a Incarnate!

 
Lauren, one of our students here, is a writer/ journalists.  Yep, we actually got another writer to this Incarnate--yay!

As part of her homework assignments, Lauren has to interview each student and write an article for OM's website and internal blogs.  You can read her articles to see how she's doing on these assignments; one is entitled Benvenuto a Incarnate about our recent open house; the second describes how Artists Transform Conversations into Creativity.(written after a creative assignment given to the students to go into Isola and have a conversation with an Italian--even if you don't speak Italian!).

Lauren chooses to stay off the FB radar, which is why you won't see her smiling face or get her real name here.  A few of our students are working in, or may work in, secure countries. Keeps it real for us as others happily snap and post to their heart's content. 

And I am taking the shortcut method of blogging--citing her articles to avoid writing my own :)  The schedule is taking every spare second, so my own writing is pretty much restricted to keeping up with curriculum and homework assignments.

Good job, Lauren!  And thanks for providing blogger fuel! 

Castelli—Part 2

I almost don’t want to reveal this hidden jewel of a town, high up in the Abruzzi mountains.  So remote, we found ourselves asking how and why it ever got there.  The drive up was like discovering Shangri-La--an exaggeration perhaps, but this little gem, unexpected in this rugged mountain landscape, produces that effect as one comes around a certain curve.  Let me introduce you. 

"The medieval hill town lies beneath Mount Camicia on the eastern side of the Gran Sasso Massif. Castelli is best known for its maiolicas, a form of decorative ceramic, which were collected by the nobility of Europe for centuries and which were at their pinnacle from the 16th through 18th century and are still produced today by local artists. Castelli maiolica was a favorite dinnerware of Russian Tsars." (Wikipedia)

As we made plans with the local Christian community on how to plug in and serve, we quickly made the no-brainer decision to visit  Liceo Artistico per il Castelli.  Marco had connections in, as a former instructor, and an open house was coming up.  Our major challenge: how to move 47 of us up the mountains in a 9-person van.  

Our logistics ninjas worked and drove like bosses, some testing their skills as Italian race car drivers, only to abandon all hope as near misses multiplied (with both cars and car sickness).  Ancient OM vans do not perform quite as well as Fiats. Neither do stomachs.

Rounding one last switchback, we caught a glimpse of our destination, sparkling in the sun.  Spilling out in the little town then, we got a glimpse of a top-of-the-world view of the region.  Ceramic shops, statues and signs filled the town.  Shutters were soon clicking on the cameras. 

Those on the first shift of van transport had time to browse a bit until we all got there, and then we relayed the team up the last leg, to the high school.  Pretty desolate place to plant an art school.  And not just any art school, but Italy’s leading high school for the arts. 

Carla Marotta, its beaming director, greeted us in pretty-darn-good English, and proudly showed off her domain.  Studios, galleries, workshops, a few potters at work, the senior projects, the library (where a computer-driven machine whirled plastic into unbelievably complex designs).  After our tour, she left us to explore on our own, advising that we be sure to visit the international museum on site--which we did--filled with works donated from around the world.  Gads.

As we wandered down to explore the monumental sculptures of the seniors’ art projects—up to maybe 15 feet tall—a classical guitar duo parked in a corner and lulled us into a happy stupor until the vans pulled up.  It was time for the first group to leave.  Sigh. 

I was in the second group, and almost got to hear a quartet acting/singing Mozart's Marriage of Figaro.  Of course, just as introductory remarks completed and the singers took the stage, the vans arrived.   Dang! 
 

Votive candles lined the driveway, leading us out through the logjams of those arriving. We returned our students to their studios, pumped and inspired by this glimpse into Italy’s glorious art heritage.  And we definitely need a return trip to Castelli.  

So there you have it.  The secret is out.  If you're ever in Rome, you might want to take a car or a bus ride (about 3 hrs.) and visit Shangri-La.  Overnight accommodations in Centro Evangelico d'Isola, of course!

Marco di Castelli

It doesn’t take long for a small village to get wind of a large international community of artists plunked down in their midst.  My plunk came last Sunday, when I attended the local church of my host family.  A tiny gem in the heart of the village, its ancient facade camouflaged a contemporary interior that had the sense to preserve stone walls and vaulted brickwork.  The church quickly filled with about 50 people—not bad for a European church.  

Though translation was offered, I respectfully declined.  Translation can tie you up in knots after you reach a certain level with a language.  It was time to ‘let go of the rope.’  If I was going to learn this language, I needed to cut off my own, even if only for 2 hours. 

And two hours later…let’s just say language immersion can do a girl in!  But I survived and earned points from those who understood what it is to endure immersion to learn a language.  Others were convinced I understood Italian, a notion that quickly evaporated as they plunged into conversation and I had to call for a translator.  Several languages were fractured that night, but I made progress—in both Italian and relationships. 

Marco preached that night, in the absence of the pastor.  He chose his words carefully and spoke slowly, making it relatively easy to follow him.  Projecting a beautiful piece by Gauguin for our contemplation as he spoke—the beauty of the image speaking volumes into our right brains, while our left ones chugged along in language. Well done, Marco!  I thought.  Well done.  Theresa leaned over and whispered that he was a great artist.  I must meet him.  

As Marco’s sermon ended, along with the service, there was a flurry of handshakes and kisses.  All the artists in the church were pointed out or introduced to me, but when Marco approached, the crowd parted like the Red Sea.  A volley of Italian burst out of him, his eyes piercing me as if searching my soul.  I sensed the thirst of the isolated artist for connection, understanding, hope. 

Marco’s story unfolded, through the translator: a master ceramic painter, he had worked as a professor at a local high school famed throughout Italy for its ceramics.  Heads nodded as the translator tried to impress upon me the stature of the artist before me.  I looked at Marco, who shrugged as if to say, “Whatever.”  The crowd waited for my reaction and I summoned one of the few words I know, but which I delivered with the utmost Italian gusto: “Bravo!”

“Now I work in the local middle school, with children with special needs,” he replied through translation, with an air of resignation. 

“Maybe you could speak at our school,” i suggested and his eyes lit up. 

“Absolutely!  Any time!” he responded, and the crowd nodded again, satisfied that I had offered an honor befitting the artist. The poor translator, sweating under the strain of resurrecting whatever English he knew, nearly fainted when my hosts (below) came to extricate me from the crowd. 

Before I left, however, Marco invited me (and all our students) to visit the famous high school in the nearby mountaintop village of Castelli.  The following Saturday was an open house. 

“Absolutely!” I replied in return.  And went home to recover. 

Living Together Beautifully

Well, so far so good, but we know how quickly throwing 40 internationals together to live, eat, sleep and create together can go sideways.  Self cultures join Incarnate culture, nestled in Kingdom culture, nested in Italian culture.  So Orientation Week is a crash course in how to Live Together Beautifully: 

Boundaries!!!

Social Policy: romantic entanglements off limits: “Fire in your heart means smoke in your brains!”
 
"Describe, Interpret, Evaluate."  Don't assume or be quick to judge someone's actions or facial expressions (or lack thereof).

The Kolb Learning Cycle: Have an Experience.  Reflect on it.  Develop a Theory. Test the Theory.

How do you learn best? Activist, Pragmatist, Reflector or Theorist? 

Introvert or Extrovert? 

Is your culture Reveal or Conceal?  Directed or Directive?  Informal or Formal?  Traditional or Innovative? Time oriented or People Oriented? Is status Ascribed or Achieved?  Is communication Direct or indirect? Turn around and look at whose hand is raised.

As we fumbled through classroom, dining, and bus schedules, we learned the copier, laundry, and kitchen clean up and set up routines.  We asked our students, who had just crossed cultures, to manage jet lag, settle quickly into new quarters with a roommate possibly from another country, who maybe doesn’t speak the same language, and may be 4 decades older than you.  Eat a new cuisine.  Get to know the staff--juggling multiple administrative, relational, technical, teaching, logistical and communication tasks, while wifi and internet blink on and off. Don't forget to goof off! 

After a tour of the facility, their studios, and small group meeting rooms, students jumped into a tightly compressed schedule, and joined a small group with whom we hope they will bond over the next three months.  They learned we will run "Swiss time," and worship in a variety of styles, and maybe have different theological leanings. Don't be afraid to lean into the differences, and ask questions (employing all the intercultural intelligence you can muster!

Are we exhausted and withdrawing or curious and exploring?   

Now we're thinking about supplies to pick up this weekend, or the logistics of taking all 40 of us up the mountain for our first field trip--to the leading high school in Italy for ceramics.  The catch: we only have one 9-seater van...

Our students managed magnificently, and today we enjoyed a much-needed Sabbath rest.  Where will God take this amazing, dynamic, just-a-bit-crazy community?

God alone knows, but in the meantime, I am daily adding vocabulary to my Italiano: Compro, ogni, ieri, nemici, settamani, al buio, giusto, broccoli, se, utile, Noi abbiamo...

Maybe I'll get to Bancomat tomorrow, or get the laundry done, or set up my art space.  But for now, time to call it a day and enjoy the dogs barking till midnight as I drift off to dreams of mountains, mobs and olive groves.  Buona notte! 

One Week Later…

Jet lag notwithstanding, the week took off with a blistering pace—as much as you can ‘blister’ in jet lag—to get our ducks in a row.  Learning how to get around the campus, meeting the Italian staff and volunteers, goats and baby goats, dogs and puppy dog, and a Shetland pony; stumbling through introductions, pronunciations, fracturing the language as the Italians fracture ours. 

Learning the kitchen routine—recycling, courtesy (don’t throw any food out), schedules, names of plates, foods, condiments. Setting up our office, main classroom/ library/worship center—not only with furniture, copiers, printers, office supplies and desks, but space heaters to ward off the frosty conditions as radiators failed in the cold snap.

By Tuesday our tech wizards had the AV system set up—an heroic effort—and within days we were fully functional (more or less) on internet and wifi.  Computers passed to the wizards to download necessary softwares for videos and audio clips in teaching sessions.  Passwords entered, memorized or written down.  Downloading What’s App to communicate with one another. 

Setting up our own living quarters.  Food shopping, finding out where the cafes, drug stores, ATMs, laundromat and supermarkets are. 

Setting up my own apartment: the heating system, shower, stove and recycling routine.  Meeting Mico the cat.  Learning I needed to keep all technology out of sight, and the curtains drawn when I go out, as there have been a number of thefts in the neighborhood.  Walking the roads around me to find the best views and trails ( a work in progress).  Discovering a vineyard and olive grove along the way.  Streams. 

Discovering I have a wonderful bed (praise be to God), and a tiny shower (don’t turn too fast). 

Combining English, Italian, French and German in conversation with my host family, to figure out the mysteries of the heating system, shower, stove and recycling routine…enjoying a pizza with them, and Theresa’s honey cakes, and learning her washing machine (maiden voyage: tomorrow).  Sharing a ride to church.  Enduring two hours in Italian, jotting down words, mashing my French/English/Italian together in an effort to talk with those who greet me.  Meeting the artists.  Invitations to meals, coffee, studio exhibits.

Staff meetings, prayer meetings, team meetings and meetings with the Italian staff. Syncing up on all materials, programs, curriculum, reviewing student files, portfolios and applications.  Crunching numbers and navigating GPS failures.  

Discovering Granny’s Attic and hauling furniture down, for our living, working, studio or teaching spaces. Setting up rooms for the creative disciplines and small group meeting rooms. Discovering artwork stored there in 2010, after the Artslink outreach; discovering one of my own pieces propped up in the hallway. 

 

Laying the dance floor, taking pictures, posting comments, praying over the rooms for the arrival of the students tomorrow, distributing spiritual and actual chocolates on pillows.  Learning the history of the place.

Arrivals of three more of our staff, and praying for the luggage that didn’t make it.  Preparing our first worship service together, and enjoying one meal after another.  Poring over dictionaries or Google Translate.  Practicing said fractured Italian. 
 
Miracolo--we got traction within days, each one busy with individual tasks, friend-making, explorations, reactions and adaptations.  I have one word for the week: buono!  (Buona?)  A Sabbath breather, a Sabbath walk, a visit to a local church, an evening to recover from immersion. 

In the morning: Week 2 begins.  

And just like that…

Leaving CT to head to NY, to fly out to Rome, to take a bus to Teramo, to be fetched by car to Isola.  One week and one day, 2 airport runs, and 33 hours later (for that last NY-Isola leg), my geographic journey is done.  

I stow the carry-ons and strap myself in to seat 20C for the plane ride.  All departure tasks are done or on hold.  No last minute errands, glitches, phone calls, or curve balls.  Everything stops now for the voyage.  The deep exhale familiar to the seasoned traveler--now I only have to sit in a plane.  

I have a window seat and no seat mate—a mercy.  Mind, body and spirit are somewhat numb and need to be decanted.  I’m also in a window seat; bathroom breaks are easier than waking or climbing over a sleeping seat-mate.  The snacks arrive. 

I dig out reading material and computer, but mostly I will relax and enjoy the journey.  Watch the movie.  Eat the dinner.  Rehearse the truths, the memories, the dreams.  Anticipate the next 3 mos.--passionate work, Italian cuisine, the mountains, language and cultural adapatations, a new home to settle into, reunions with dear friends and colleagues, expecting to make new ones. Digesting, while preparing a feast.  Recalibration.

A party erupts behind me with 4 people clustered to socialize just as the fuselage lights go out for sleeping.  Dang.  I sleep well enough though, another mercy. 

Arriving in Rome, I follow the pack to Customs, breeze through the kiosk with my Irish passport, and marvel at the upgrade Fiumicino has had since I last came through.  I forget about the cigarette smoking but not about the coffee, which I order up while waiting for my bus to Isola.  Maxi Cappuccino: 2,50. 

I watch the nuns and priests go by, and note shoe fashion--boots and the thing with sneakers--hairdos, veils, saris, jackets, coats and jewelry. 

A congenial, fast-talking bus driver pulls in and starts bust-a-moving: Destination?  Luggage?  Payment or invoice?  I manage with rudimentary Italian and hand gestures (their second language).  We are loaded quickly and efficiently; I text all parties tracking my voyage, grateful for wifi on the bus, looking up at the palm trees and darkening skies.  Snow is predicted. 

We exit the airport along a long alley of a highway, to dozens of flagpoles flanking and saluting us on either side, with the fluttering flags of Italy and the EU.  I feel regal.  

The parasol pines--I forgot about them and smile immediately upon seeing them again.  A flock of white birds that look like egrets fill a green field.  Low-hanging clouds fill the sky and in the distance, shroud the spine of mountains to which we are headed: L’Aquila & Teramo.

Familiar French chain stores also bring a smile: Leroy Merlin, Carrefour and Total.  And on the highway: Renaults and Peugeots.  Some international staples, like IKEA and the trance-like stare into iPhones (if not loud conversations in several languages) on the bus. The blue highway signs.  The palm and cypress trees, first glimpse of an olive grove.  First hillside towns.

As we ascend, the temp drops, as does the snow, from mountaintop to hillside to field to road.  The clouds lower again and we study the sky, wondering if we will beat the snow.  I shoot a quick prayer that my connection will be on time, and/or there will be a bus shelter to wait in if not, and/or the fitful freezing rain stop long enough for me to transfer luggage and myself into another vehicle.

 Not to worry.  The freezing rain changes to snow as we arrive in the bus terminal, and as I unload the luggage, a kindly-faced elderly man taps me on the shoulder.  “Pat? Gianpierro”—my chauffeur!  I silently bless him for being on time.  Stunning punctuality by both the bus driver and him--for Italy.

Gianpierro and I exhaust our tiny vocabularies of each other’s language, and just as well.  I’m tired, and he needs to focus: it’s snowing well now as we wind our way to Isola, and getting dark.  Gianpierro threads the narrow mountain roads to a country house, in which is my apartment. 

Marco, Teresa and Pascal meet me at the door—all smiles—and our tiny vocabularies of each other’s languages is quickly exhausted…Marco calls for a translator and we go over what I need to know about lights, oven, recycling, shutters, keys and showers.  My mind locks up on Italian and instructions but we’re done soon.  Teresa gives me a big hug and tells me to rest well.  We are going to be friends before this is over, I predict.  (And we’re each going to learn a lot of each other’s languages!)  They live upstairs.  I have a downstairs living area and and an upstairs bed and bath. 

And just like that, I am in a new country, a new home, a new lifestyle, for three months.  From the salt marshes of my home town to the Abruzzo region of Italy. Time  to stop now, thank God for safe passage into Italy and up the mountain, and into an inviting home. 

Now I lay me down to sleep…

LEAST LIKELY SUSPECTS

It was a dark and stormy night.  I was scheduled to meet with a small group at a local church--was it worth it?  My host didn't think so, guessing that only 2-3 people would be there, given the weather, and that it was summer.

"People are away or not motivated," she reminded me. 

"True.  But let's see what happens," I replied, and pushed myself out the door. 

When I arrived, there were my three, faithfully gathered.  One, a visitor, asked if I knew where the leader was.  No, I answered, I'm a guest.  She offered me a chair, and we sat and waited.  Off to a good start, I thought.   

While we sat, I learned the visitor was the daughter of an old friend of mine at the church.  We enjoyed chatting and sharing news, while the other couple nodded approvingly.

The leader burst in then, looking harried, blurting out an apology--"I forgot about tonight!" and ushered us into the meeting room.  

We took our seats around a table and he asked me what we were supposed to do.  I made a suggestion, he nodded, and off I launched into a brief history of my ministry.  A few minutes later, a single mom came in, with her daughter, and sat down next to me (the daughter fixing me with an unnerving stare).  I lost my train of thought, but now we were six.

Regaining my composure, I returned to my story, when my new visitor friend began coughing and sneezing uncontrollably.  I hesitated.  

"Are you okay?" I asked, "Do you need a glass of water?"

"I think I better leave," she apologized. "I'll just be disruptive."  

"No," declared our leader, "I think Pat should pray.  You've been talking about healing in France; why don't you pray for it here?"  Yikes.  How did we get to this?!

I hesitated again, looked at the miserable, coughing, sneezing woman, who was looking at me with hopeful eyes.  So she has faith, I thought.  

"Would that be okay with you?" I asked her. 

"Oh yes!" she brightened. 

"Ok then!"  I asked the leader to join me and we each laid a hand on her shoulders.  I invited the others to pray with us, and then asked God to unclog whatever was clogged, dry up the congestion and...can I just say I didn't have a lot of courage at this point?!   

"My left nostril just opened!" the woman exclaimed, interrupting my cowardice and startling us all.  

"Praise God!" the single mom rejoined, and the fervency of prayer dramatically increased. 

On we prayed and the woman began inhaling more and more deeply, as if coming up from underwater, and was soon weeping, 

"I've not been able to do that for years!"  

What  joy filled that room. Our 'ordinary world' had just gone spectacular.  As we finished our prayer time, the woman, completely healed, glowed with gratitude and joy. 

I drove back in that dark and stormy night, shaking my head.  Worth it?  Absolutely, and why I continue to meet with any and every group or person that wants to hear more of what I'm doing.  You just never know when God is going to show up.  Within the month, I had three checks from a very grateful small group that had been touched by God. 

My own touch from God was to encourage me again to  press on into two of the most perplexing mysteries of my life and faith: raising funds for ministry and healing.  I've learned that I need to keep showing up and praying, because you never know when God is going to show up.  And it seems that the more I show up, the more He does.