Birthday in Tuscany - Style On The Lamb

The house is silent and my bedroom is completely dark. As I begin to open my eyes whilst stealing a few more moments beneath my comforter, I can sense the bright light that lies behind the thick wooden window shutters. Light traces the lines of the window, begging to be let in to the room. It doesn’t take long before I am coerced to open the window. There she is — bella Tuscany.

Green is everywhere. Ivy vines surround my window, framing my view. In the distance, cypress trees stand tall stretching their limbs in sun salutations. Lush grass covers the rolling hills in a cosy coat, keeping the earth warm. Small, medium, and large shrubs dot the landscape. Amongst them, small bunches of red, orange and pink flowers wave hello. Buon giorno tutti!

Amongst the greenery, a beige stone church tower stands, strong but not imposing, like a kind teacher welcoming kids to school. Its bell gently tolls, reminding the “children” that time is ticking — “wake up sleepyheads, seize the day, if not now, then when?” it melodically calls.

With that prompt, I throw on some clothes: a pair of cut-off denim shorts, a tight fitting navy cotton t-shirt, and a beige cotton belted sweater coat. I slip on a pair of navy leather loafers and make my way downstairs. Far from the look of a Fellini film character, I am not glamorous, but I’m comfortable. And that’s all the matters to me now.

I make my way down the stone stairs of the villa, passing closed bedroom doors. The rest of the house is sleeping; they must have ignored the “teacher’s” chimes. I head straight to the kitchen, where the coffee rests. There are no electric coffee machines, only steel moka pots. So I fill the bottom of the pot with fresh water and grinds, screw the top vessel on, place the pot on the stovetop – and wait. Eventually, steam drifts through the air and the sound of boiling bubbles whisper, “mi scuisi, your caffe is ready.” I pour myself a small cup of hot black aromatic coffee, add some oat milk, and sit by myself at the large wooden dining room table, suitable for a 16-person dinner party.

The large table is actually made up of two pieces of furniture; they are siblings. Made from the same tree, they are a warm golden-stained oak, with bevelling around the table’s edge and strong rounded legs with carved detailing, but each has its own natural knots and markings. Both are dressed in a smooth gloss lacquer, but have been spilt on and scratched up over the years; carved with absent-minded scratches alongside blatantly inscribed names, dates, and what could be game-night scores. These tables have partied more than your average rockstar. They have held full dinner services of plates and platters, loaded with hot food fresh from the oven, flocks of wine glasses featuring every colour of the vino rainbow, and abundant birthday cakes covered in candles.

How fitting that I sit here now, celebrating my birthday — my big 4-0, as well as my first year as a new Mother (which proved to be a bigger transition than turning middle aged, more on that later). My son and I share the same star sign with birthdays only one day apart; yet on the day he was born, I was reborn. I am the same, but different. I still love fashion. But I don’t have time to get dressed up everyday. I don’t have time to wash my hair everyday. I don’t have time for long breakfasts, sometimes even breakfast at all. I have lost my daily routines, but I have gained a deep love and renewed perspectives. Just as Brandi Carlile so eloquently sang,

“Oh, but all the wonders I have seen, I will see a second time
From inside of the ages through your eyes.”

I am 40, but I am a child again.

I take a slow sip of coffee, just as the baby monitor begins to squeak from across the room. Its flashing light beckons me. My baby is waking, getting ready to play. With my fingernail, I etch a small heart into the wooden table and say salute as I quickly swallow the rest of my coffee.