I just throw out this little story because it’s interesting but may or may not be particularly meaningful.
Time: summer of 2004, about 6 PM
Place: Praiano, Italy, on the Amalfi Coast
My husband Tony and I were vacationing in paradise. We’d rented an idyllic little house in a real neighborhood in Praiano – views of the Mediterranean, Positano, and in a prime position to experience everyday life high above the tourist route. We’d decided to go to the festival of the San Luca, at the church that was perched even higher than our house.
Now, on the corner of our street, there was a statue of 20th century holy man, Padre Pio. When we reached his statue, we knew to turn right.
We’d decided to walk up to the piazza of the church to witness the procession, after which there was a festival with music, food and fireworks. It was a beautiful evening, and we set out for the 1/2 mile walk to the piazza. As we reached Pio’s statue, my left foot slid beneath me, and I skidded along the pavement for a few feet with my right foot twisted under me. Tony helped me up, and above the strap of my sandal, the instep of myfoot was torn and bleeding. Ow, ow, ow…..
Determined not to miss the festa, we continued on, Tony walking and me hobbling. We arrived a bit early and found seats on the wall near the church, eventually attending the service, the procession, and the celebration afterwards. My foot continued to ooze, and we joked a bit about a message from Padre Pio, who, of course is believed to have had stigmata on hands and feet.
I still have the scar. And the memory.