Today at 1pm, I left the place I have been calling home for the last 8 years. I have done this before but this time, it’s different. It is now 3.30am Kentucky time and I have just begun the 17 hour journey across The Pacific. I am exhausted. Both physically and emotionally. All week I have been saying goodbye to friends who are now as kin to me and a community I feel completely and utterly supported by and connected to. The story of why I am leaving is complicated but for the sake of your potential interest in it, I’ll simplify…

I have to leave. The date in my visa says so. When I tell most people about this fact, they are shocked to learn that after living and participating in a small, close-knit community for as long as I have, that I am in fact, ineligible to apply for a U.S. visa or citizenship. The only way for me to ever spend any more time in the U.S. is as a “visitor” (which gives me 90 days in the country at a stretch). Meaning the life I was enjoying up until this morning, is no longer valid (not sure I can even hold a drivers license any longer?) To say that this situation bums me would be a ridiculous understatement. And yes, I have talked to everyone from Representative Ben Chandler’s office to countless immigration lawyers, to others who’ve had their own painful dealings with border bureaucracy, and it seems the only way for me to achieve any kind of permanency, is to marry a U.S. citizen–not where I am currently at.

Despite the fact that I feel more like an American at this moment, I am lucky and grateful to be an Australian. I love my country of birth. It is stunningly beautiful and equally as full of potential and opportunity as America. I speak the language (although, after being away so long I realise, we really do sound funny) and I have an existing support network of family and friends to help me navigate my re-integration. All this has caused me to consider the millions of people who do not share my fortune.

Take for example, a recent case of immigration horror in my home town of Frankfort, Kentucky. Julio Martinez, a 19 year old kid who graduated from Frankfort High, was recently picked up by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) officials, handcuffed while at work and thrown in a jail full of criminals in Wisconsin while they prepared for his deportation back to Honduras–a country he has not lived in since he age 7 when his mother fled in fear of her life. It relieves me to say however, that Julio’s peers and supporters rallied successfully for his release until a judge in Texas decides whether or not to re-open his case. The outcome is still pending.

Sadder still is the story of Ana Romero. She was picked up in Shelbyville in in August of 2008, while working as a domestic cleaner. After her ICE arrest and incarceration in the Franklin County jail, she somehow fell through the judicial cracks and was subsequently forgotten… for eight months! That was until officials found the 44 year old, mother of two, from El Salvador, hanging dead in her solitary confinement cell. When I hear stories like these within my own community, I feel a pain in my heart knowing that as humans beings, we have set it up so that our fate is dictated by where on earth our mother birthed us and we took our first gasps of planetary air, which makes some of us incredibly lucky and some of us simply SOL.

Curiously, as I ponder the complexities of our global web, I am right this minute flying over Arizona (currently extremely controversial in immigration news), whilst enjoying a conversation with the Mexican man seated next to me. He is kind of rough in appearance and still in possession of his thick, south of the boarder accent. He seemed incredibly surprised when I engaged him–apparently they just don’t do that in LA, where he’s lived for the last 31 years. We swapped stories, both indulging in the opportunity to make a connection with someone totally different from ourselves.

For me, sharing stories opens the doorway to compassion–our best defense against fear and the decisions we tend to make when we are feeling fearful. There is nothing to fear. Despite what they say, there is enough for everyone… but good lord, it’s going to take a massive shift in our current consciousness. We are all immigrants from somewhere. And we all have a story or two to tell. Unfortunately, I know little about my own family history but even if I was able to trace my ancestry all the way back to the arrival of the First Fleet and subsequent colonies, it would mean that my ancestors moved in on land already well managed by it’s indigenous owners and claimed it as their own.

It may sound idealistic to some but I want to live in a world where our incredible diversity is celebrated and embraced. Ecologically speaking, habitats with a diverse array of plants and animals are much more resistant to pests and disease than a monoculture of say, corn or soy (but that’s a whole other rant). So, if someone is going to be a tax-paying, law abiding, contributing member of a community, is there really a problem? I guess we’ll find out when Julio’s case is finally heard.

There is much to say on this incredibly complex and sensitive issue but I consider myself a hybridized, citizen of the world just looking to share some thoughts (plus, I had to do something to keep myself occupied on the journey over the Pacific). I have some pretty clear ideas about what I am looking for in a community and I am now in the process of shopping for a new place to live. I feel lucky to have an opportunity to “shop” in Australia. I just wish everyone could all enjoy the same grace.

www.myimmigrationstory.com is worth a look.

I am moving to a new apartment next week and as I am kitting out my new space, I am overwhelmed by the amount of information one can consider when making a purchase. Even something as simple as a shower curtain has kept me shopping online for more hours than I care to admit. I am sure this may sound like a ridiculous waste of time to many but I really do love to ask questions, it is just part of my nature. But I am still surprised when I realise the questions I’ve asked haven’t gone deep enough and as I piece together my answers, I learn there are simply more questions.

Ok, so I wanna buy a shower curtain. In the past I have been conscious enough to buy PVC free, supposedly eco-friendly bla bla from Lowes but I feel like something girly and washable, so initially I gravitate towards something fabric. Jump online, ok yes, love this pattern, perfect only $14.95, yes super saver shipping, add to cart, wait wait, what’s it made of? 100% polyester… hmmmm, isn’t polyester a derivative of the petroleum industry? Aren’t we trying to move away from our overwhelmingly high level of dependence on this non-renewable commodity? Another undisclosed amount of time investigating the production of polyester and yes, it’s essentially made from coal and petroleum, it’s basically the same stuff that plastic PET or water bottles are made from and perhaps I would’ve clicked “buy now” had the fabric been made from these recycled  bottles. But it is not, so the search continues.

Ok, so what other options are out there? Hemp… some even claim to be organic hemp (which seems a little superfluous cause to my knowledge as hemp does not require pesticides and the like anyway) and then there’s organic cotton. Both of which are perfectly lovely options if you are willing and able to fork over $70-$100 for a bathtub curtain. A little bourgeoisie I hear you say? Damn straight! Equal access to information and affordable resources is something I will continue to fight for, whether it is within our food systems, healthcare systems or textile industries etc. But what the hell am I talking about a god damned shower curtain for? Also another valid question.

Put simply, Energy! It freaks me out that there are still naysayers out there who continue to deny the science of climate change. But even if you choose to remain within the parameters of this archaic stance, how can you deny that energy conservation and management would not be reflected positively in your pocket-book? Yes it may take more time to consider your options a little more responsibly but so what, asking questions will only work to highlight our global connections, something our planet requires of all of us to begin to heal.

I went to a Frankfort Chapter, United Nations Association of the USA at the library last Monday night to hear a talk by the Ex-Commissioner for the Kentucky Department of Environmental Protection, Art Williams called, “From Copenhagen to Frankfort : Impact of Climate Change”, and while the details of the talk won’t appear here, what I got from the presentation was that while are governments and policy makers are getting better and acknowledging climate change, based on global population levels it is simply not enough. Here in the US we use on average 4-6 times more energy than the average Chinese or Indian… and they want what we have… and based on our current idea of what makes for a comfortable life, why wouldn’t they? I’m sure it looks awesome to have all this “stuff”. Trouble is, how long do we have till the system breaks? This I have no idea about but I do know, that unless we change things in our microcosm (bodies, homes and communities) how can the macrocosm ever stand a chance?

Some questions that may be worth asking… First of all, do I really need it? So much of what we buy is just “stuff”… crap we simply don’t need. How was it produced? Did a whole bunch of coal have to be ripped out of the ground or shit pumped in to the air to make it? Is it toxic in any way? Can it be recycled or reused when I am done with it? Who made it? Were they fairly compensated for their work? Were the conditions they worked in safe and equitable? Where was it made? How much shipping and packaging is involved for me to receive it? I’m not saying this is an easy thing to do, my head spins at the amount conflicting information out there but I am reaching the point at which, to not be asking myself these types of questions feels irresponsible and inherently selfish.

So out of all the hours research, frustration, soul searching and finally, enlightenment, I am delighted to say I had a brainwave. The other day I bought a sweet, vintage, green floral sheet for $2.50 from Goodwill. I’ve decided I will sew some tabs along the top and hem the bottom and viola, problem solved. It’s beautiful, cheap, unique and recycled. Now I just need a sewing machine… anyone want to loan me one? I’ll make you a shower curtain.

I am sitting here in my Umbrian living room feeling sorry for myself… I just got off the phone with somebody in Kentucky that I love deeply. I missing them desperately and wailing. What on earth am I doing here? Why am I such a mess? When will it all become clear? Have I done the right thing? Coming to Italy was supposed to allow me the time and perspective to make sense of my uniquely complicated and confusing situation and instead right this minute, I feel as though my life is total shit and there is no possible way I will ever recover. Dramatic? Yes. But we’ve all been here (and will be again), when all you can think of is the negative. The mind starts putting a pernicious spin on everything… “I have no home, no job, no cat let alone any children, no familiarity for the impending Christmas season, not a damn clue about what the future holds and worst of all, writers block” (not that I am calling myself a writer in the technical sense but there again, that’s just more negative self-talk!!)

So while I am fully immersed in this futile act of self-pity, in pops an idea for something to share on “Earthgirl”… San Francesco di Assisi! Apparently, I have used this Patron Saint’s words of wisdom as a quote on my Myspace page but at the time of posting, had no idea who’s words they were or even much of anything about this influential and historical figure. I just knew when I said them, they had strength and power. I had forgotten about them (as I haven’t logged in to my Myspace account since about May) till tonight of all nights, I stumbled across their profound truth once more. I’m sure this hardly seems relevant (especially for me to unload on you like a diary) except that last week, I happened to take a trip to the peaceful Francis’ stunning hometown of Assisi. And I feel it appropriate to make these words my mantra once again… “Start by doing what is necessary, then do what’s possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible”. Ok, I’ve stopped crying and now I will write.

Without giving you a full history lesson of this pivotal figure, I will just give you the brief D.L… He was the founding father of the Franciscan Order of Monks and co-founder of The Poor Clare Sisters. He was born of a wealthy family (around 1181) and ultimately shunned it all for a life of poverty and spiritual devotion. He is a Patron Saint of Italy, animals, birds and the environment and lovingly worshipped worldwide.

Despite the fact that I neither label myself a Catholic nor a Christian am drawn to Francis as gentle soul who had a true understanding of the inter-connectedness of humans, nature and spirit. He was an early environmentalist and while the whole world is currently focused on the Climate Summit in Copenhagen, I can’t help but wish his sentiments were something more Christians embraced (don’t hate me). He wrote poetry about “Brother Son” and “Sister Moon” and “Mother Earth”. Also, if you google his name you’ll notice his benevolence for animals has inspired countless websites, from all over the world dedicated to animal welfare. But of course you can’t look at this pious man’s life without being overwhelmed by the artistic expression he has inspired. The World Heritage listed Basilica, has made the stunning hilltop town of Assisi, one of the most visited pilgrimage sites in all of Italy, and is one of the most beautiful and peaceful man-made places I have ever visited. Unfortunately, you cannot take pictures inside the Basilica so you are either going to have to look it up on the internet or just go check it out for yourself. But in saying that, I’m not sure that this decadent structure of holy praise would be inline with Francis’ principles of humility but I’m selfishly happy it exists.

So as I sit here pondering Francis’ life and wise words, comfortable, in front of a deliciously warm fire and a glass of Umbrian red and after having now also completed what was “necessary” (my next Earthgirl entry) I feel compelled to change my perspective on my current situation because this is, “what’s possible”… so instead of saying, “I have no home” I could use, “I am a free, traveling spirit, who won’t pay taxes anywhere this year”. “I have no job” could instead be, “I will sleep as long and as hard as I damn well want to”. In the absence of my beloved cat or the whole procreation thing, “No stressful trips to the vet regarding flea allergies or UTI’s and I can also take a shower and pee undisturbed plus I don’t have to shell out for Wii’s, robot dogs or Hanna Montana toys this holiday season”. (Just as an added side note, despite the fact that he’s not mine, there is a cat laying across my chest as I type). And the lonely, feeling-sorry-for-myself Christmas thing… it will be just fine… even though I am without family, it is certainly not the first time and I will simply immerse myself in new and wonderful local traditions and celebrations and perhaps take time meditate on what a lucky girl I actually am, trusting that as long as I do my part, choosing the path of spirit and heart, soon I “will be doing the impossible”.

Truffles… pungent, earthy, dirty and steeped in sexual poetry. Only Mother Nature understands the formula for production and has yet to divulge her earthly secret. They are rare and well disguised, sometimes up to a meter beneath the earth and finding them takes skill, patience, intuition and a specially trained canine companion. In gastronomic circles they are more highly prized than gold, for example in late 2007 a white truffle weighing 1.5 Kilo (3.3lbs) broke all records when the funky looking fungus fetched a whopping $330,000 at a charity auction. I read somewhere that the buyer, Macau billionaire, Stanley Ho, invited 200 of his best friends to dine on the rare delight but was unfortunately unable to join them on the night due to an illness (not sure of the veracity of this claim but it makes for a great story).

“There are two types of people who eat truffles: those who think truffles are good because they are dear and those who know they are dear because they are good.” – Jean-Louis. Vaudoyer

This ancient fruit of the earth enjoys a symbiotic relationship with oak, poplar and hazel tree roots in the forests of Italy. Historically sow’s were employed for the hunt as they apparently find the truffles’ aroma irresistibly comparable to the pheromones (Androstenol) of the male boar but they have since been replaced by the more conveniently trainable and less fungously ravenous mutt. Unfortunately however, the truffle industry is rife with competition, revealing the worst in some of the more desperate Trifolau (truffle hunters) who have been known to go so far as to poison their rivals’ meticulously trained dogs, set their cars on fire and generally miss the tubers’ rare gastronomic gift, merely succumbing to the allure of their increasing market value. Sow’s however, are not the only creatures to have sought their musky, lusty scent. Apparently Napoleon who was having difficulty sowing his seed, purportedly begat his only legitimate son after dining on a truffle-stuffed turkey. Renowned 17th century gastronome, Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin wrote in his classic work, The Philosophy of Taste, “It is generally believed that the truffle excites the genetic sense.” Perhaps this approach wasn’t totally without merit, it seems the same love pheromone, Androstenol is released in human perspiration which may help to scientifically explain the tuber’s erotic reputation.

I tell you all this a) because I find it interesting b) I’m living in Umbria, prime tartufo country and c) I had the pleasure of attending a local Truffle Festival in near by Citta di Castello to check out all the fuss. Big white tents were set up in the town’s historic center for vendors there to show off all kinds of woodland delicacies such as mushrooms, chestnuts, honey, wild-berry jams and also oil, wine and cheeses. While there were many varieties of truffle on display, unfortunately I did not part with my euros for a single subterranean love root. Mostly cause at the time I had no idea what to look for and also I am sad to say I still lack the necessary language skills to ensure a good deal (I was actually ripped off by an advantageous nut roaster who had discovered my linguistic incompetence) but I did have an opportunity to sample the truffle’s pungent and alluring flavour in all kinds of cheeses and salami, pastes and spreads. I assume it’s a flavour you either love or you hate and there is no doubt that I am a lover. This fantastic fungus appeals to me on a number of levels… it is ancient, steeped in mystery, secrecy and folklore, the hunt itself is outdoorsy and active, it’s local, aromatic and incredibly delicious. I have some dear friends coming to visit me from Kentucky very soon, so maybe a truffle-stuffed turkey is in order for Thanksgiving dinner? (I’m sure the effects of tryptophan will be more overwhelming than the truffles… we will be careful.) I guess then, the next step is for this Earthgirl to find someone willing to take her on a hunt and show her how it’s done. Somehow, I think I’ll likely have more luck on my hands and knees with my own nose in the Umbrian dirt then finding a kindly Trifalau open to sharing his secrets and harvest. I shall keep you posted.

Note – between writing this article and posting it I did in fact have a somewhat pretentious but highly recommended opportunity to indulge in a truffle appetizer… a poached egg floating in pureed potato with shavings of the highly prized tartufo bianco (white truffle).  This uncomplicated combination of ingredients allowed me to truly savour and enjoy this “diamond of the kitchens’ ” curious and ambrosial flavour. It was a good day.

Completely out of breath I take a seat at the bar, and attempt to relay the dramatic incident that just occurred on what was to be my first leisurely stroll from the house I am ‘sitting’, down the hill to town (the tiny San Leo Bastia) for supplies. My new friend and bar owner, Cecilia smiles and believes she is helping me when she sweetly says, “In Italian please Stacey.”

“Sorry Ceci I can’t.”

“Oh but Stacey, you must.”

“Then I’m afraid I have nothing to say. It is impossible for me to tell you my story in Italian.” I want so badly to relay the events in this language that is as delicious to me as it is yet unintelligible but she doesn’t realise that due to the fact that I arrived in Italy only three short weeks ago, I don’t even know the word to use if the chicken in my story is still somehow miraculously alive and not pollo on your plate. (I have since learned is the same word).

Kindly but somewhat disapprovingly, she lets me off, “Ok Stacey, what happened?”

Cecilia was one of those enviable kids for whom it was mandatory to learn another language in school. Sure, we tasted other languages growing up in Australia but I wish I was forced to become fluent in something, anything and really exercise that part of my brain. It seems there is nothing like moving to non-english speaking country to really highlight this ineptitude.

So I proceed to tell her in English, about how I just rescued some poor woman’s chicken from the jaws of death. The dogs I am looking after incorrectly assumed the chicken wanted to play in their mouths. And to further highlight my linguistic frustration, when said farm woman caught me putting her slightly de-feathered but incredibly lucky chicken back with it’s frightened family, she thought I was trying to steal it and there was no amount of arm flapping and flailing I could produce to convince her of the truth.

Strangely enough, Italian is not the only language gracing my ears in this beautiful Umbrian countryside. I am currently sharing a house with a sweet Hungarian couple, Szonja and Mate. Like me, they are Help-X’ers (see last article) who have packed up their ‘normal’ lives to hit the road for an indefinite period. Now here I thought I would write something about what I thought their expectations for this trip might be but decided it would be more accurate to actually ask Mate to explain in his own words. However, to do this he must first pull out his Hungarian to English dictionary to look up the word ‘expectation’, and after a moment of consideration comes up with, “taste another life”, “to try one’s luck.” Perfetto Mate… I love this couple.

I have always envied and admired those that were able to think in more than one language. My friend Martina for example, is fluent in three… firstly she’s got her native German, then came English and then 20 years ago moved here to Umbria and therefore now has Italian under her belt. And to top it all off, for the last few years the smart-ass has been studying medicine in Italian. I often struggle to string a sentence together in the one language I’m supposed to have command of but it’s very exciting to think that there will come a day when I will be able to chat to Cecilia about my harrowing adventures with farm animals in her native tongue. However, for now if only I could say, “I’m sorry madame, I was not stealing your chicken, but rescuing her.”

This paint thinner like, esophageal assault of a local beverage was the only option for me and my fellow weather beaten Help-X comrades to warm our mutinous hearts. Let’s just say, this is not quite what we signed up for. Personally, my olive picking visions were of physical but pleasant sun drenched labour harvesting the versatile, delicious and world renowned Italian olive and then to observe how it goes from tiny bitter fruit to viscous, delicious, gastronomous joy. Ok, to be fair, I have seen and enjoyed the fruit to oil process and that has most certainly been a highlight but sun drenched and pleasant?? Not so much!

But before I go any further I guess I should give you the gist of what Help-X is… www.helpx.net (for those that are interested in learning more) is a web-based organisation designed to encourage a mutually beneficial, cultural exchange for both hosts and workers around the world. A host can be anyone that has work to do and accommodation to provide and depending on the amount of hours worked, food can also be part of the deal. Workers are travelers who are typically not after the Club-Med experience but more of an extended, less expensive and truly “local” understanding of the place they visit. A typical deal is about 4 hours work a day reciprocated with food and accommodation but it can vary from host to host depending on what needs to be done. For example, if you worked 8 hours one day you might get the whole next day off to do as you please. I had agreed to be at my current hosts place for 2 weeks but lets just say due to the falsely advertised length of the days, icy winds, transportation isolation, and our female hosts less than easy nature, me and my new Help-X friends are out of here a week earlier than anticipated. I worked 5 of the 6 days I was there and without a word of thanks, enough was enough.

In saying all that, I understand that it’s not healthy to dwell on the negative (but god damn it’s nice to get it out) so let me talk about all the cool stuff too. OLIVES… I am so grateful to now have an appreciation for this beautiful and healthful oil’s high cost. I really had not investigated the picking process before I jumped on a plane, content to figure it out as I went, so as a result I was surprised to learn that you do not in fact pick them (although you can), you rake them off the branches. It’s like brushing the tree’s knotty hair and is not at all unpleasant work… as long as the sun is shining and the sky is not dripping with water… sorry, sorry, positive, positive. The olives land on nets spread under each tree and when each tiny fruit has been combed off every branch you shake the nets so the olives pool together and can then be rolled into crates. In two days we collected 14 crates, weighing a total of 266kg (586lb), drove them up to Agostini Alfredo’s oil pressing joint www.frantoioagostini.it to turn our labour into antioxidant liquid green/gold. I have never tasted oil so fresh in my life… it is peppery and grassy and quite different to what most of us have access to on our generic supermarket shelves. But here’s where the price justification comes in… from our 266kg of fruit we yielded a mere 40L (10G).

One of the other major highlights of this experience has been an extravagant 12 course feast at one of the local agritourismos. This meal was the epitome of The Slow Food Movement, as it took me and my fellow labour camp inmates no less than 4 hours to work through and everything that we ate was either grown on the chef’s own farm or at least locally sourced. For 27 euros each, it really was a treat of a way to spend our day off (one and only that it was… ok, I’m stopping). The meal was accompanied by an endless supply of house-made bread and wine and finished off with sweet Vina Cotta, a perfect dessert accompaniment and then of course the real deal, Italian espresso. And just when you think sliding under the table is unavoidable, out comes the “digestive”… Mistra. We promptly saw the value of taking a bottle of this pure rocket fuel home with us so as to take the edge of the frigid and mostly unheated evenings, but now as I lay here and contemplate rising again at the crack of bloody sparrows for another chilly day of finger-numbing picking, a quick shot in the morning isn’t sounding terribly wrong.

AND… for those of you that so innocently asked me to bring them back some oil… not a chance… I won’t even see a drop of it myself.

ALSO… you will notice I took these photos on the SUNNYday that we picked.

At this very moment, my new friend Lars (a delightful 6‘5”, 71 year old Dane) is in his office kindly looking for the best method of transportation for me to be able to make it safely to my next destination in Umbria. Although Italy has an extensive and apparently effective rail network, navigating their booking websites or calling the rail hotline, is comparable to standing on your head and yodeling, even if you are a native to the bouncy, sing-song language. I mention this only because up until two nights ago, Lars and I had never exchanged more than a few emails to make our acquaintance. We were introduced by some very dear mutual friends in Kentucky and as it now stands, we have already shared several delicious meals together, I have ridden on the back of his Vespa to one of these dining experiences, he has given me keys to his Roman apartment so I can come and go as I please and I have spent the last two nights crashed on his couch.

Being the lucky girl that I am, Lars is not the only Roman resident that has graced me with his time and local knowledge. My sister introduced me to Andrea, a 30 year old born and bred Roman who last night proudly took me on a walking tour of the very hip area of Trastevere. With it’s narrow, cobble-stoned streets, endless bars, restaurants and gelateria’s, it seems it is equally popular with both locals and tourists. But it was his injection of enthusiasm, love for his city, coupled with his apparent joy in sharing made this visit very different from the one I had in 2006. Having Andrea as my personal tour guide, made the city much more accessible and less intimidating which allows for one to concentrate on the act of simply being a cultural sponge… mmmmmmm, just what I came for.

molto sono benedetto con questi nuovi amici.

“Wow, you’ve changed”, stated the security guard at Lexington airport who was in charge of viewing passport and boarding pass validity. This statement came as a total shock to me, not because I disagreed with her observant remark but because she, a complete stranger had noticed. Could she tell that I was embarking on my most ambitious personal adventure yet? That this was one of the most massively exciting, sad, surreal and profound days of my 34 years? I have changed… and it’s not just the obvious transition of my appearance but a deep and irreversible shift has occurred since that photo was taken almost 10 years ago. “It’s true”, I said “thank goodness, it’s almost time for a new one”. And while I won’t bore you with the details of my personal metamorphosis, I will tell you that sitting here in my cattle-class seat somewhere over the Atlantic on my first truly solo adventure, I realise that this adventure is nothing like what that cabbage-patch faced girl in the passport photo had ever envisioned for her life.

I am off to Italy. I will be gone just shy of three months and I have no idea what will happen once my time there is up. My plans are loose except for three specific contacts I have been lucky enough to make. Firstly, I will land in Rome where a friend of a friend has generously offered to rescue my weary ass from the airport and is also allow me (still a stranger at this point) to crash at his apartment for three days. After this I will be working on an organic olive farm in Le Marche, harvesting olives and learning about the delicious oil making process for a couple of weeks. And finally i’ll head a couple of hours north to “sit” a 400 year old Umbrian farmhouse for about a month and a half, where I will have the great fortune to befriend my first horse and my first donkey. At least it is my hope we become friends?

So even as I write this plan for the next few months and especially when I share it with envious others, it all sounds like a wonderful adventure but the truth is, I am scared shitless to be leaving all that is familiar and safe to me. But it seems I am not alone and that most everyone I know is currently going through their own profound and dramatic transformation. So as the plane takes flight and through teary eyes I stare down at the inevitable autumnal shift beginning to occur throughout the Bluegrass and I remind myself that with great change comes great growth… and, I continue to breathe.

If you have stumbled across this site, just know we are still under construction but oh so very close to launching. In the meantime enjoy Earthgirl Communications’ new logo, courtesy of the creative and generous, Jennifer Zingg. I encourage you to check out her beautiful work at www.jennysgourds.com