Out on a Limb
The tree in front of me stood alone in the small garden, its limbs stretched upward as veins spreading through the air. I looked around me. No one was watching. The tree seemed sturdy enough to climb—a solitary, ornate “I” at the beginning of a story. I caught the lowest branch, swung my legs over it, and pulled myself up. Inching like a five-foot caterpillar, I crossed the limb hand over hand, put one leg over to the sill, and crawled through the small bathroom window of my hotel in Siena, Italy.
As usual, the front door porter had locked the door at 11:00 p.m. and had gone to bed. The first night I stayed out late and rang the bell, he answered the door, cursing. The hotel policy was to lock up, and I needed to return earlier. I had never heard of a hotel locking the door, but it was a small town and a new culture for me. What did I know? The second time I rang the bell after lockup, he didn’t come to the door until I rang it five times. It was humiliating to walk past his accusing stare. The message was clear. All the horrible rumors about American girls were true. I was living proof. I vowed never to ring his bell again.
That’s when I happened to find a communal bathroom on the first floor, far down the hall from the front desk, with a tiny window that overlooked the garden. The garden was gated, but it was an easy fence to climb. Before leaving for the evening, I would step into the bathroom and unlatch the window. Then I would leave by the front door. No matter what hour I came back, I could slip through the hotel window and walk up the back staircase to my room without anyone the wiser. This happened night after night. Each time my leg hit the sill, I would ask myself the same question. “What in the world am I doing here?”
Like that tree, I grew up in a small garden, planted in good soil, with a white picket fence all around me. My pioneer ancestry stretched over time and across the plains and to a prophet of God. My seven brothers and sisters and I clung tightly to one another, our common tendrils forming a solid system of support. Because of this environment, I was always a reasonable sort of girl. I didn’t come home past my curfew. I never had a serious boyfriend. The only limb I ever went out on belonged to a thick aspen in my front yard. It was a good spot to read. I attended seminary and weekly church meetings, read my scriptures, and felt strengthened by the Lord. My parents, the current sentinels of Mormon generations, taught me the importance of the gospel. But, however deep and loving my roots were, part of my soul longed to wander.
When I was young, I didn’t dream of baking, sewing, and carving a home for my future family. Instead, I wanted to traipse around the globe in high heels and spaghetti straps, kiss foreign lips, and delve into an unfamiliar world of culinary delights. The urge to escape grew inside whenever I ate green Jell-O at a ward Christmas party or stood against the wall of a darkened cultural hall during a stake dance. I would ask myself “What in the world am I doing here?” I felt like a weed amidst the delicate beauty of the other plants. The only cure for my wanderlust was to pull myself up and go to another place.
I had only been in Italy a few days when I felt the distinctive environment seeping into my subconscious. I didn’t expect to feel so changed. I was surprisingly susceptible to the Italian landscape and the romantic sultriness of the men’s brown faces, chiseled so differently from the marshmallow ones I had left at home. The land, the language, and the air fell in rhythms foreign to my own and mesmerized me. My heart, unschooled, longing for adventure, could not stand up to the formidable Italian forces. I immediately fell into a lifestyle that didn’t match my upbringing. One of the consequences of those choices was crawling through a small bathroom window at three o’clock in the morning. Life felt turbulent, new, and exciting. Without cultural restrictions, I thought I was finally discovering the “true me.” What I was really doing was sawing through the trunk of my life, little by little—the small teeth of sin biting against the hard wood.
A couple of months after studying language in Siena, I moved to Florence to study literature at the University. The exchange students were put up in a monastery outside of the city. I received my very own monk’s cell. It had a cot, a sink, and a chest of drawers. It was Spartan and cold, but there was a large window that I could fling open to look at the Tuscan countryside. My hours were suddenly restricted. The door was permanently locked at eleven o’clock at night with no options for sneaking in. The long bus ride from the city to get to the monastery meant I had to leave Florence relatively early. Cameras were put up in the hallway to stop student delinquency, and a short, tight-lipped Signora was hired to reign over us. With all of the excesses and beauties of Florence awaiting me, I felt trapped in the monastery. I had nowhere to go this time, but inward.
Monasteries lend themselves to self-reflection, so each night when I walked down the hall to my cell and I saw a Fra Angelico painting of the Annunciation, I internalized its meaning. The autumn colors were muted, but Mary’s face glowed. Like me, she was an innocent girl whose world had suddenly changed. However, she was obedient to what she had been taught. Why wasn’t I? I tried to bridge the gap between what I knew and what I did, but it was a spiritual journey in which I had no experience. It was a chasm too deep to cross on my own. I waded through guilt and confusion, repentance and hope. I started to read the Book of Mormon, looking for guidance. My first Christmas away from home was approaching, so I bought a ficus plant and decorated it with ribbons for ornaments. I thought of the Savior and what His Atonement might mean for me but didn’t come up with any definitive answers.
It was then that I met Paolo. He was completely unafraid of living. He had a wide face with an even wider smile framed by auburn whiskers. He would walk down the hall in boxers and a large robe and do a little dance in front of the Signora’s spying camera. His eloquence and forthrightness charmed everyone around him. I quickly fell for him and his complete trust in himself and the universe. We spent all of our free time together. Many of our talks were spent trying to reconcile our two religions. As time went on and things got more serious, we plotted a way to raise our children in different belief systems. He always pushed that I give up mine, reminding me gently that I didn’t seem to believe in it anyway. I couldn’t argue with him. It seemed too hypocritical.
On a cold day in December, I finished reading the Book of Mormon. I knelt down on the monk’s cell floor and asked my Father in Heaven if it were true. I was completely alone. After some minutes of praying, I received an unequivocal answer. My heart burned. The Spirit wrapped around me and whispered its message. The Lord answered me just as I had been taught He would. What happened next? To this day, I am still not sure. Before Jacob wrestled the entire night with the angel, he prayed, “O God of my father, . . . I am not worthy of the least of all the mercies and of all the truth, which thou has shewed unto thy servant.” At that moment, I felt like Jacob before my own wrestling match. I remember thinking, “I am not worthy of an answer; therefore what just happened didn’t happen. It couldn’t be true. I imagined it.” Opposing thoughts rolled around in my mind—wayward marbles being flicked this way and that. My intellect rationalized the answer away, and I rejected what was given to me freely. I also knew that my life with Paolo could not survive in the world that the Holy Ghost’s answer provided. I made a choice. I chose Paolo.
That night, I lifted the axe as high as I could and swung with all my might—cutting myself off completely from my feelings, my religion, and all that my family had taught me. I had done what no other could; I made a stump of myself.
I moved away to an apartment in the city so I could be free to do what I wanted, when I wanted. The rest of that school year, I wandered across the landscape of my spiritual map. Paolo was my guide. We traveled from city to city, traipsing through museums and wandering through cathedrals. He introduced me to new foods, music, and friends. One day he surprised me with train tickets to a beach town named Viarregio. We spent the day lounging on the beach, Italian style, with a large umbrella and waiters bringing us drinks. While the sun set that evening, I held Paolo’s hand and looked over the vast water. The home and person I once was seemed very far away. However, despite all appearances of enjoying myself, I felt a deep nagging in my soul. My year in Italy was about over and I knew that soon I would have to come to terms with my choices and what my Father in Heaven had revealed to me months before.
One evening before I left Italy, I went to a nightclub with some friends. It was dark with neon signs above the booths, and heavy cigarette smoke obscured people’s faces. Couples were kissing and laughing. Heavy-lidded men, holding drinks like lovers, watched the women from dark corners. I tried to dance. I wanted to dance. I wanted to forget that I was leaving. I spun, dipped, and shook my hips. Suddenly, as I was spinning, I felt as though I was suffocating. The world seemed to be closing in. I had taken too much in and my spirit couldn’t bear it anymore. I went and leaned against the wall to catch my breath. “What in the world am I doing here?” I asked. I ran out the door for fresh air and some clarity. The cobblestones were wet from a recent rain. I walked home slowly, feeling as old as the buildings around me.
Paolo and I said goodbye just as a great movie would portray—holding each other under the moonlight on a bridge over the Arno River. The light from the large streetlamps flickered on the water. Nothing seemed real. Here I was, kissing the foreign lips I dreamed about in the dark hall of those stake dances, but I now knew it wouldn’t bring me deep happiness. Paolo was a part of the world I needed to turn away from in order to be close to my Savior again and honor the gift I had received that night in my cell.
It was an ending my wandering soul never could have imagined. I had to travel to the other side of the world and climb out on a limb to find what was beneath me all the time—my roots, waiting to encourage new growth, waiting for me to come home.
Melonie Cannon is married to Dr. James Uhl. They have four spunky, lovely children. She has a BA in English and Italian literature from the University of Utah and the Universita di Firenze. She received her MEd and taught school before becoming an army wife and living overseas. Currently, she is a staff member for Segullah and serves on the Board of Trustees for American Legacy Academy in Utah. She loves to read, write, and try new things.
