There is this story that my grandmother told me some time ago. Of her who was close to marriage with her great love, who was later my grandfather, and of his family who searched far and wide for a photograph of her to deliver it to a maara in the country so that she could curse them and separate them for always. Fortunately, my grandmother, and despite her beauty, had only been photographed a few times.
The maare, village witches and mysterious women, were therefore nothing but great bitches. They destroyed marriages and bent men to their will. They drove them crazy, they made them worse than soulless puppets. They even managed to force them to have feelings: a drop of menstrual blood in the coffee was enough and the game was done. Imagine how many poor males have been ruined by the unbridled power of women.
How bad, what fear.
But it is something that sounds quite familiar to me, this of hatred towards the female gender. The idea that women are evil has been around since the dawn of time, and it is not necessary to bring up the history of witchcraft to prove it. It seems that the woman instigates to sin regardless: it is something inherent in her forms, so most say, in the sharp look or in the refinement of her intelligence. Whatever you touch becomes bad, dies, withers. Here in Sicily to say, and this is a land where we do not send things to say eh, here we say them exactly as they are without any fear, here in Sicily until recently women with periods were prevented from touching their plant. “You will make them die, you are unclean”, they said. We are daughters of the devil, not for nothing: we bring life and, if we want, even death.
But isn't this the ideal context, the one that sees us women as inferior beings but endowed with extraordinary abilities of manipulation, the ideal context in which to turn in our favor what instead would like to demote us? In Sicily, fifty years ago - and perhaps still today - women had no other function than that of procreating and nursing their own children and those of others; clean the house, serve the men of the family, keep your eyes down and cancel your identity within that of the father, brother, husband. It was like that for all women, but only one category was saved. That of the witches. Essential figures within society, they interceded between earthly and out-of-control things, and were just one step lower than the priests, but they were much, much more fearful.
The Sicilian maare were women who were not satisfied with living by inertia, who did not passively accept destiny and instead tried to change it, with magic, spells, prayers and all that was in their possibilities. And they had no scruples, yes, but who had scruples with them?
From the mythological Circe to the girls burned in the fires of the Inquisition, passing through the seas of the South and ending with me, the witches have been the resistance in a society that has always looked at women with distrust and superiority. And that's why I'm not ashamed of my identity as a witch. Indeed I want to tell you all here, in black and white.
"Grandma, this isolation is destroying me."
"What can't you stand about this time, my child?"
“I had projects to carry out, works to finish, pending commitments that are waiting for me… and now I find myself still. Property. Without being able to do anything. I'm wasting time. "
“You are not wasting time. You're earning it. But you don't realize it. "
"And how can I, grandmother, realize such an absurd thing?"
"Cook. As it once was. Knead the bread and let it rise two long days and two long nights. The time has come for slow leavening. The one that makes you take care of the food you cook. Use your hands, not machines. Use good yeast, not artificial yeast. Let your dough rise for days, not just hours. And in this time of long waiting and caring, even if nothing seems to be happening, in reality an incredible change is taking place. In the dough and inside you. Learn to take care of your daily bread, you will thus learn to take care of what really feeds your soul. And everything will happen. As if by magic."
"Is this the time gained? That of care and waiting? "
"Yup. In this fast paced world we prepare the ingredients quickly and we want the bread to be ready as soon as possible. But do you know the taste and smell of slowly leavened bread? It is a different, genuine, almost sacred flavor. While you wait for your leavening bread you are in connection with your bread: you look at it, you feel it, you care for it. Here: this is the time for slow leavening. You have already prepared the ingredients, you have already kneaded. Now step aside and enjoy the wonderful spectacle of this culinary transformation. Of this transformation that is also happening inside you. "
"Without doing anything, grandmother?"
“Without doing absolutely anything. The smell of bread is already in the air. Trust your bread. And in the great possibilities that are within you.
Mum mum do you know what?
She suddenly exclaimed.
" Oh Honey, tell me, tell me! "
" You know, today I was in the park with my grandparents and while I was on the swing I saw Martina arrive, you know not? That little girl I like so much. She was really beautiful, she wore a floral dress and had her hair pulled back in a simple bun. As soon as I saw her I ran to her and asked her if she would like to come with me under the big chestnut tree, the one in the center of the playground. At first she blushed but then she accepted and I felt so happy. And do you know why I asked her to go there with me? "
" Let's see ... you know I don't know Darling, you tell me, I'm curious! "- Mom followed."
I asked her because I wanted to tell her something ... well it's been a long time since I've been whirling around in my head but I've never found the courage to let him know and face to face ... I'm ashamed ahaha. I wanted to ask her if she wanted to be my sweetheart. But ... not really like children, I want her to be My girlfriend and I want to treat her as dad does with you and grandfather does with grandmother.
I want to take her for a walk around the country hand in hand, I want to buy her a big big puppet so at night she can hold it and remember me, I want to tell her every day how beautiful she is, I want to protect her like grown-ups do, like dad does, I want to do everything like he! He is my hero! ".
" But love, but it's a fantastic idea, I'm so proud of you! But ... may I know what she replied? "
The mother asked anxiously.
" Well ... she told me she would let me know the answer tomorrow, when we would meet again at the little park. So at the moment I don't know if that's a yes or a no. Obviously I hope in the first one, I would be really happy! ".
" Honey, look, you can go sure it will be a good yes, you know we women are like that, a little ...
how to say we always make you on your toes, but in the end always worth it. Trust mom. It will go great! But now go to brush your teeth and then go to bed that we have to resume the routine that soon starts school and then tomorrow will be a great day, hahaha. Come on, go to bed ".
" Okay mom, but tomorrow morning I wake up early that I have to make myself beautiful, I have to put on the gel, dress well, put on perfume ... "
" Honey, she will look at this: your little heart. And if he beats hard then he'll tell you yes, she certainly won't care how you are outside, but how you are inside! Up to bed! "
"What a hurry to go to bed tonight!"
Thought the child.
"It never happened ...".
The lights in the house go out, you can only hear the crickets and cicadas out there in the fields and a few people for the town who are already waiting for the party next weekend. Summer atmosphere. Peace and quiet around. "Oh right, tomorrow morning I must also remember to take her a rose from the garden, a beautiful fragrant and beautiful red. I can't wait!"
The child thought again in bed, now on the way to sleep. 3.38 marks the alarm. The house is shaking.
"What's going on?"
He wonders.
"I've never felt the house move so much ... oh maybe it's Superman who came to town! Ahaha, he's so powerful he makes everything move. I even drew it on the locker at school. Or maybe it will be the disonaurs. that return, Batman, the superheroes ... but dad will think about saving me whatever happens, he is my Hero! This is how the life of that splendid child ended ... with his mind immersed in the world of fantasy, competing with those who had arrived in the village. No superheroes, no dinosaurs, no superpowers ... all the power of Nature had made itself felt in the village. And he, now under the rubble, I'm sure he was smiling while waiting for his favorite hero to come and save him. He left this world smiling I am sure, dreaming yes but with constant thought about the next day. Who knows if Martina would have said yes, who knows if she would have liked the rose, who knows how many moments they still had to live together. It all ended there. That yes never came, that playground is no longer there and that child is no longer there either. But I'm sure he left us with a smile. But I'm less sure if her dad and mom did the same. Perhaps they understood that no superhero had arrived in the city, but Nature. And I think maybe there was no smile on their faces ... but only tears, tears of those who would soon leave this world. "
It’s true, I don’t understand this life anymore. When my grandmother held my hand along the tree-lined streets of the neighborhood, the whole world was an infinite amazement, a wonderful and endless game, every moment. Then, when my heart exploded in my chest, losing me in the bottomless black eyes of my first love, nothing else existed but her, and the world was just a multicolored stage along which to run holding hands to discover the first words in two. Still later, imperatives and commandments. Work, affirmation, money, family, duty. As if a huge, immense wall were to be built, on which to climb in order to continue again and again to climb, climb up, with time at your heels and with a blinded conscience. Without memories, without experience, without emotion. Now, now that my gaze knows how to embrace and no longer challenge, I no longer understand life. I know it is like a flowing river, and that I cannot stem it as long as I am in this form. I know that I still want to hold a love by the hand, or fly over the musical corpuscles of a melody, or be moved by the colors of a flower. But I also know that I cannot erase a pain, that I cannot save those who tremble, that I cannot change what is or what is not. And I no longer know if my doing is really a doing or I don’t know what to do. I do not know. So I sit down, I try to feel with my eyes where the light is and to turn my heart to it, because there is nothing else Then … when they close to me … who knows … in which direction I will orient myself. After all, understanding is not really necessary …
I don’t know if any of you have a chest or trunk where you keep your memories. Sometimes the door of the past opens and many things related to our childhood come out. I opened the trunk of my memory and what I found is beautiful. My grandmother had this trunk, which was actually a chest, which served as a coat rack and bag storage, on which we children sat and imagined driving a carriage, complete with a simulation of the noise of the horses’ hooves, beating the timed heels on dark wooden board. This trunk, however, escaped its textbook location because it was in the corridor and did nothing but feed our curiosity as city children looking for new pastimes with which to pleasantly fill the long afternoons spent at grandmother’s house, slippers with heels and television on those TV programs that she called “useless things”. Although curious, we were not used to approaching the trunk in the corridor too frequently because we felt a sort of awe, most likely infused us by our parents, since inside there were “grandmother’s things that if you touch them she realizes and gets angry “. But one day I took courage and asked my grandmother to show me what was hidden in the trunk. She opened it and in the midst of letters, my grandfather’s military clothes, old newspapers and strange objects, photos of her past came out. I looked at that world in black and white and I wondered what colors the clothes and eyes of those people who unconsciously stared at me immortal from the photo cards had had. I asked my grandmother for the names of multitudes of objects unknown to me, information on their function, on what they had done, if the iron was really as comfortable as it seemed from the relaxed expression of a relative portrayed in the moment of starching a shirt. squares with an indecipherable color. And my grandmother promptly answered all my questions, standing, elbows resting on a round table now full of photographs; she seemed younger to me and it was easy for me to see in her the signs of that girl who survived the war.
Because you were more than a grandmother. You were so much more. Not only did I feel safe with you. Not only with you was me. And the dances in the morning with our favorite record: the “hits of 2005”, the breakfasts with milk and cereals. Not just laughter. Not just scolding them when I wanted to sharpen the markers. Or when I refused to help you. Not just beautiful things. Not just the imitations of grandfather, which made everyone laugh. Not just the jokes around the house, not just the stories. Your stories. I remember them all. When you talked about them in the evening, when I was tired of playing and had finished dinner. Your stories. I remember them all. They were so far-fetched, yet I miss them too much. And the fantasies. Our fantasies that others will never understand. And when I was little I found in you the support, the comfort. Then when I got older and you a little older I became your support. Your comfort. Every day I curse myself for all the time we could have spent together and we didn’t. A lot of things awaited us. Because you were more than a grandmother. You were so much more. Not only did I feel safe with you. Not only with you was me. And the dances in the morning with our favorite record: the “hits of 2005”, the breakfasts with milk and cereals. Not just laughter. Not just scolding them when I wanted to sharpen the markers. Or when I refused to help you. Not just beautiful things. Not just the imitations of grandfather, which made everyone laugh. Not just the jokes around the house, not just the stories. Your stories. I remember them all. When you talked about them in the evening, when I was tired of playing and had finished dinner. Your stories. I remember them all. They were so far-fetched, yet I miss them too much. And the fantasies. Our fantasies that others will never understand. And when I was little I found in you the support, the comfort. Then when I got older and you a little older I became your support. Your comfort. Every day I curse myself for all the time we could have spent together and we didn’t. A lot of things awaited us. I wanted you to be there again for my birthday. You would have showered me with compliments the entire month and beyond. And when every time I have to pose in a photograph with the remaining grandparents, it hurts to see everyone go away like this. I know you’re there. But not being able to touch, hold, hear your voice anymore. It hurts. It hurts so much. And miss you. You would have showered me with compliments the entire month and beyond. And when every time I have to pose in a photograph with the remaining grandparents, seeing grandfather alone next to me, it hurts. I know you’re there. But not being able to touch, hold, hear your voice anymore. It hurts. It hurts so much. And miss you.
I love to smile and I love my life .. no existential drama, no depression, no suicide mania, no self-defeating thoughts! No, I’m cheerful and carefree, I like to listen and tell, I like to look around and discover the world, discover people. I love the eyes because they tell about us more than we will ever say. I love listening to music that speaks to me about something, that reminds me of emotions, that reminds me of long aperitifs, endless car journeys, monologues with myself and films that made me cry. I love good people because they look at the world with tenderness and warm my heart. I believe that everything happens for a reason, a reason that we may not be able to understand and therefore we just have to fall in love every day of our life as it is.My grandmother once gave me some advice: In difficult times, go forward in small steps. Do what you need to do, but little by little. Don’t think about the future, not even about what might happen tomorrow. Wash the dishes. Remove the dust. Write a letter. Make a soup. You see? You are moving forward step by step. Take a step and stop. Relax. Give yourself the compliments. Take another step. Then another. You won’t notice it, but your steps will get bigger and bigger. And the time will come when you can think about the future without crying.
"Grandma, I can't stand a person."
"Bless her, my child. Because she is showing you parts of yourself that you cannot accept. You see them reflected in her. They hurt you, like blades entering your depth, because it is the only way to attract your attention. Thanks to you can see that person and integrate them into you. "
"Should I bless those who can't stand?"
"That's right! Everything that happens outside of you is a mirror of your inner self. It is showing you the way to enrich yourself more and more. Change your way of thinking about life. Fly high with your mind: look for the symbol, the meaning that your emotion has come to carry you, begin to see every person you meet in your path as a reflection of parts of you. Don't waste time on stupid complaints, superficial chatter and the usual prejudices. You have a treasure to find. Every time. your energies in this great task! "
"What an effort, grandmother ..."
"It is more tiring to stop complaining. And carry it like a burden, day after day. It immobilizes you, takes away precious energy, hinders you. Become a hunter of meaning. Go beyond people, facts, news."
"I do not know how to do it..."
"There is only one teacher who can guide you in this. You will never find it outside of you. It is your feeling. Your annoyance, your well-being, your anger ... are messengers of your Truth."
"And how do I integrate the parts of me that I don't welcome?"
"Respect what you feel, celebrate it, lift it up. Every emotion is sacred: if you can glimpse even a minimum of richness, the rest will come by itself. You will have new eyes, able to see beyond any wall. They are the eyes of your soul. ! "
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 