When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.

-Hellen Keller

For the past twelve years I have been immersed in Renaissance Italy, and Venice in particular.  Over these years, I’ve traveled to Italy often, and have lived in both Rome and Venice. During this time I became inspired to write  two books.  Outer Beauty, Inner Joy: Contemplating the Soul of the Renaissance was published in 2010.  A new book, an historical novel that takes place in Renaissance Venice, will hopefully be published in the not too distant future.  The time I spent working on these books and revising (and revising–and revising) them were some of the most joyful times of my life.  The work fed me in a way that nothing else ever has.

For many years, Venice was a second home to me.  I had intense, deeply felt, wonderful, terrible experiences and relationships in Venice that shaped my life and my work.  But a couple of years ago, after having lived in Venice for almost three years, I returned to New York.  And recently, my dearest Italian friend has also moved away from Venice; now her beautiful home, which was my home for much of the time I lived there, has been sold.  I will return to Venice, certainly; but the Venice I once knew has changed and will never be the same.  Venice lives on in my heart and mind, and I dream of it often.  An extensive library of books on Renaissance Venice takes up many shelves on my bookcases, and my computer is filled with notes and files. I have innumerable photographs and memories.

Now that my novel is practically completed, I’m left with another sense of loss.  I loved living in the world that I created in the novel, where each character embodies something of myself.  Although I never had any children, I imagine that what I’m feeling might be something like postpartum depression.  Something that was mine and mine alone, that I nurtured and loved and cared for, that I almost lived for, will now take on a life of its own, separate from me. Others will have their comments and opinions, and I will no longer be able to correct and revise.  I can only hope and pray that my words and my story will be appreciated.  But I have no control over that.

We all go through these periods when the world as we have known it for long periods of time shifts and moves and we have to find our footing all over again.  Children grow up, we move, we get or lose a job, complete a meaningful book or project, someone close to us dies, we age—one day we wake up and our bodies have changed.  We feel so different.  How did that happen?  And so we must wait and work on whatever is in front of us.

Italian Renaissance philosopher Marsilio Ficino spoke of a guiding spirit, a personal daimon, who was said to lead and inspire each person on his or her creative path.  Now that one road has ended I know that there is another somewhere; and in fact I have many other activities I’m involved with: teaching, coaching, speaking. Yet that personal involvement with another book or novel is yet to make itself known.  But even when that happens, I can’t imagine anything that will ever be as important to me as Venice, a place for me of mythic proportions.

An interesting image to contemplate at such times is the Ouroboros, the snake devouring its tail.  This ancient symbol, and the alchemical sign of eternal recurrence, signifies endings and beginnings.  When one door closes, another opens.

Perhaps now is the time to develop a closer relationship with that energy which impels me, to listen more carefully still, to grow quiet and be led.  Perhaps this is where all paths lead, into a deeper communion with that indwelling presence that knows where we should go next on our journeys.