Lessons from the Corner of Boncompagni

And some personal book news...

Crossing the road in Italy is an exercise in courage, even when doing so at clearly marked pedestrian crossings. I learnt that if you step off the edge of the footpath the oncoming car will stop. But if you don't take that first step the car will not stop. If you hesitate the car will not stop. You must be brave to take that first step, trust that the stranger rushing towards you will see you and brake. But trust is a scarce commodity when you see that the oncoming driver is talking on their mobile phone, an unlit cigarette hanging out the corner of their mouth, and I know it's unlit because I can see the driver trying to light it while they use their elbow to steer. And somehow they are still able to make the gear changes, because they are all driving a manual. 

Sitting at a corner café observing the traffic, my wife, (originally from Latin America so no stranger to chaotic traffic), observed that despite the disregard for road rules the traffic flowed continually, and no car horns or abuse could be heard. It was a stark contrast to Latin American traffic. The difference, she concluded, was that in Latin America the prevailing driving philosophy was “I Go First”. The philosophy manifests in people cutting in and cutting off causing all traffic to come to a standstill. In Italy the philosophy appears to be “You Go First”. Drivers are happy to wait, to let pedestrians cross, to let cars nose into traffic before proceeding themselves. Against all odds, the result is free flowing traffic. 

In 2020, after a series of falls, including one that left a football-sized hole in our loungeroom wall, we took the difficult decision to place my father into aged care. I flew home from Adelaide and my brother flew in from Myanmar to help with the transition. A few weeks later, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Knowing, as everybody does, that bad things come in threes, my brother and I were understandably nervous. It was therefore with some relief that a few months after my mother completed her successful cancer treatment, I learnt that my brother had fallen ten metres from a cliff, collapsing a lung, fracturing his pelvis and losing a lot of skin but all in all quite lucky to be alive. After breathing a sigh of relief for myself, I took stock of my life through the prism of my new perspective and made a few decisions. Very bad ones, as it turns out.

When my father went into aged care one of the first things he asked to be brought from the house were his dumbbells. Little five kilo jobs that he would do bicep curls with, seated in the chair that he could not emerge from unassisted. When we brought him home for visits he would ask to be taken to the shed where his home gym was housed. There we would lift him from his wheelchair and lower him on to the rowing machine. He would happily row away, preparing his failing body for I knew not what.

My mother is not a gym person, but you wouldn’t know it if you saw the zeal with which she has collected skipping ropes, exercise balls, ab rollers and other assorted gym gadgets that have been advertised on television over the years. Mum though is a walker. She walks like there is a pot of gold at the end of every road. Each morning, she’s up early and out there on the streets, around the fields, over the tracks. In my mum’s mind, if she can just keep walking, everything will be alright.

Compared to my brother though, my parents are a pair of no-good layabouts. When he isn’t falling off cliffs, he is attempting to scale them. And to scale cliffs, you need to be whippet fit. A few weeks after his fall, when he was still on crutches and pain relief medication, I went looking for him and found him engaged in some kind of strange fingertip push up routine. For him, exercise is a sacred daily ritual, observed with the intensity of a fanatic.

A few years ago,  as I was going through what I can now look back upon as a Low Point, I went to see a counsellor. Her solution to my problems were alarmingly simple, and obvious. All I needed to do to break my cycle of mild anxiety was meditate daily, have a weekly plan of things to do outside of work and schedule regular exercise. Now, whatever the gene my family has that drives them to exercise, I don’t have it. But I started a little program and before long I was feeling better.

After the health crises of my family, I had an epiphany of sorts. Why bother exercising, eating right, drinking less if at any day I may get cancer or, though much less likely for me, fall off a cliff? And even if neither of those things happen, what was the point of arriving at old age in good health? In my father’s case, his rude good health only prolonged his life, long after it had been drained of any semblance of living. Better to enjoy the moment, arrive a wreck and make a quick exit.

I finally had some perspective on life. Instead of going for that run in the afternoon, I would open a bottle of red wine. Forty minutes meditation in the morning? No, thank you, I’ll just sit up in bed and endlessly scroll through social media posts until my eyes bleed. This was living! It was all so clear. I was living for the moment and the future be damned! And then the anxiety returned and soon enough, I was back face to face with the same counsellor looking for an answer to the same issue.

“Have you been meditating?” she asked.

“No.”

“Have you been doing a weekly plan?”

“No.”

“Have you been exercising?”

“No.”

“You know what you need to do right?”

“Yes.”

When I experience anxiety I feel alone, as if the world, which once upon a time was at my feet has somehow become firmly lodged upon my shoulders. Nobody can understand what I’m going through, nobody can pull me out. The irony is, that while my anxiety feels like a very lonely experience, it is actually communal, inasmuch that it affects everybody around me. The ones on the end of my sharp retorts, the ones within the blast radius of my various moods, moods whose creation they had nothing at all to do with; the ones who want to help me but can’t.

When parked, the Italian vehicle appears harmless.

My initial reaction to the series of events that affected my family was to prioritise my needs; the need to rebel against death and aging. But all that did was hurt those around me, damaged relationships. Putting myself first only led to blockages and emotional jams.

Sitting on that corner in Rome, discussing the characteristics of Italian drivers with my wife, I realised that selfcare isn’t about arriving at old age in good condition, nor is it about fighting the aging process. It is not even about doing something for myself right now. Selfcare is about putting others first, about doing whatever I need to do to be somebody that other people enjoy being around, to be someone that people want to share time with. It’s about putting first the people that, out of the billions of people on earth to choose from, have chosen to be with me. And it is for the ones that, through no fault of their own, have drawn me in their genetic lottery.

There is no shortage of street signs and traffic lights and road rules in Italy. But I would argue that they are merely adornments. Italian drivers have seemingly decided to work things out among themselves. And what they have worked out, with their cigarettes and their stick shifts and their dexterous elbows, is that if you put others first, things are easier and life flows a little better. And when I think of it like that, the things I need to do, even the afternoon runs, become just a little bit easier.

BOOK NEWS

Next week on July 26 my first commercially published book, The Ballad of Abdul Wade will be available in Australian bookstores and online. You can read an extract and pre-order the book here: https://affirmpress.com.au/publishing/the-ballad-of-abdul-wade/