Part One
Further afield, friend
My favourite memories revolve around being outdoors.
I grew up in a picturesque neighbourhood of Lambton County on the shores of Lake Huron in Ontario, a place that was once the site of Canada’s first commune. As a child I played barefoot in the grass, and explored the beach, park, fields and forests close to our modest, multigenerational homestead. It was the sweet life.
As I grew older, the instinct to wander never left me. In my twenties, I traded quiet corners for bold sounds and bright lights. In my thirties, I swapped familiar paths for unfamiliar cities. I travelled alone more often than not - sometimes out of choice, sometimes out of necessity. I learned to trust my curiosity the way I once trusted the sound of the shoreline back home. Whether I was walking down a street in Amsterdam or waiting for a train in London, I always felt a small pull - an invitation to look closer.
Then, in my 39th year, I went to Italy.
The trip was hastily planned on my part, despite the fact I was to meet up with a trio of lifelong friends to celebrate a string of milestone birthdays. I had five days - four days in Tuscany, one in Rome - hardly enough time to get to know la dolce vita, but as fate would have it, just enough time to feel it.
Italy hit different.
Fields. Cobblestone streets. Proper cappuccino. Fresh ingredients. Dancing. No menus. Blue glass. History.
It was all so romantic.
When in Rome, I visited the Trevi Fountain. I stood in front of the Triton controlling the docile sea horse and from my point of view, everything looked calm and tranquil - the water shimmered. I pulled a coin from my purse, took a photo, made a wish and with the flick of my wrist, I let it fly.
Swish.
I smiled happily like a love drunk fool and watched my coin float gently towards the bottom of the fountain. I imagine, that as I walked away, the God of the sea must have laughed at my expense. I suppose he could have whispered something like: You know nothing, Meaghan Lawrence.
And so it was that I my compass lead me next to a source of natural light, symbolic of connection. To the oculus of the Pantheon. An opening.
Over time, I have come to understand that every location leaves an imprint. A tone. A subtle way of seeing. A shift in how you feel about yourself, or the world. It’s in those unplanned moments that a place reveals itself.
It has taken seven years for the proverbial coin to drop and to understand what Italy meant to me.
Italy inspired me to give without expecting a return.
Italy inspired me to receive without needing to know the whole plan.
Italy inspired me to be rich. Rich in community, rich in safety, rich in health, relationships, pleasure and leisure. Rich in natural beauty. Rich in simple pleasures.
To dine when the sky turns pink and have conversations for hours. To people watch. To get lost in my art. And maybe, just maybe, become art too.
And that’s where this series begins: with the memory of a place, and the quiet way it shaped who I am becoming.
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