Nostalgia: Borgo Sacco

Four years ago (already), I lived in a small town, on a quiet vineyard, on the bank of the Adige river, at the foot of the Dolomiti mountains. It was the first time in my life where the coordinates of where I lived depended on nature terms, rather than urban terms. I let myself be slowed down by all that there was to notice around me. I let my rhythm match that of the town, of its locals and its churchbells and their understanding of time. I savoured the food and wine, let the crisp mountain air purify the connection between my head and heart. I watched the seasons change, watched as the scraggly vines that once trembled in the snow became green and full and replete with promise. 

Every so often, I feel nostalgic of that time and place, of that yellow house on the vineyard where my first duty every morning was to open the shutters of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and say good morning to the towering mountains. When I worked from home rather than the office, I'd let my eyes leave my screen and wander out for a moment or two, running over the vines and up to the mountaintops, over the houses and church towers that were stacked along the rows that came in between. 

Every so often, in the hustle of my days and rapid page-turns of my agenda, I crave that daily connection to elements of nature. I crave being anchored to scenery, of feeling its effect on my mood and my perspective. I love my home, yet I am grateful for all the other homes I have temporarily had, here and there - places that have remained part of me. 

From my heart to yours.

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