Define “Big” . . .

When I moved to Italy, I traveled light, selective about the contents I’d be carrying in only two suitcases. Yet, a small glass dish, the kind that holds jewelry or coins, made the cut. I couldn’t resist the call of the six-words that covered its surface.

WHY NOT

HAVE A

BIG LIFE?  

Safely sandwiched between cotton tees, the little dish joined the ranks of frequent flyers. For a year, I carried it from town to town, always resting it on a nightstand. When I scooped up loose change my fingers grazed its message and I would read the words. Living in Italy, writing my memoir, life certainly felt big and beautiful, and dreamy.  

A year later the dish and I traveled home, along with the first draft of my manuscript. Life was falling into place; everything was coming together. . . sort of . . .

Let’s just say a piece of my plan fell apart, and for a little while, I hated my story. My “Big Life” declaration was slipping away. Why did I move to Italy, what made me think I could write a book? Wah, Wah, Wah!! Fortunately, setbacks never keep me down for very long. I snapped out of it and in true Christine fashion went into action. Suddenly, getting my book published was urgent, a race toward a self-imposed deadline. Despite my effort, my story wouldn’t be rushed.

Six years later, my memoir. Bare Naked in Public has launched. The response has been overwhelmingly positive. Admittedly, those dearest to me have been the first to dive into its pages and offer praise. Floating on a cloud of euphoria I hardly noticed the anonymous, one-star Amazon review. I gave it exactly the attention it deserved. One star. Bad reviews are a fact of life. The naysayers and joy stealers can’t bring me down. I wrote a book. I did it.

Many of you have been reading my work since my first blog post ten years ago, following my journey at home and then abroad. Some of you responded to my stories with the wisdom of your own experience. You counselled me to be gentler with myself and showed me how. Others, in private messages, shared the weight of their own regret and grief. At the risk of sounding a little Kumbaya, we connected. The exchange of empathy and compassion was palpable. It’s no surprise that you were (and are) the same folks who never lost faith in me or my story. I hope my memoir evokes a similar vibe.  

Today, the little dish is mounted on my kitchen wall above the tile countertop. Its words cannot be missed as I wait for coffee to percolate or toast to pop. It asks again. Why not have a big life? I answer with a question. Define big?

Turning my life upside down with a bold move to Italy got a lot attention, admiration even. The question I am asked most often is, “Why did you come home?” There were logistics of course, I hadn’t received my citizenship yet. Even if I had, I would not have stayed. I came home for the people I loved. They were missing from my big life. Still, coming home was hard. I blogged about my struggles, and you reminded me of my strength. Then I buried myself in finishing my book.

Without a doubt, the best part of celebrating this accomplishment is being surrounded by my people. Near or far, I feel their presence deeply, the magnitude of their love and support is bigger than words.  

Funny thing, the big achievement of publishing my book took a back seat to the glorious humans in my life. They make my life big, and beautiful and dreamy.

WHY NOT

HAVE A

BIG LIFE?

I am.

For me, it will always be my people.

Xoc