STORY OF NUVOLA FRESCA

Long before the white man arrived,
in a Cheyenne village lived a little girl whose
name was Nuvola Fresca.
One day the little girl said to her mother, Last Evening Sigh: "When night falls, a black bird often comes to feed, pecks at pieces of my body and eats me until you arrive, light as the wind and chase it away.
 But I don't understand what all this is.
With great maternal love Last Sigh Of the evening reassured the little girl by saying: "the things you see at night are called dreams and the black bird that comes is only a shadow that comes to save you" Nuvola Fresca replied:
"But I am so afraid, I would like to see only the white shadows that are good".
Then the wise mother, she knew it would be cruel to close the door to the fear of her child, invented a round canvas with which to fish the dreams of the night, then gave the object a magical power: to recognize good dreams, that is, those useful for growth. spirituality of the little one, from the bad ones, that is, false and deceptive.
Last Sigh of the Evening built many dream catchers and hung them on the cradles of the children of the village.
As the children grew, they embellished theirs with expensive objects and gradually the magical power grew, grew, grew together with them ... Each Cheyenne keeps its own dream catcher for life, as a sacred object bearer of strength and wisdom.
Even today the Cheyenne Indians build a dream catcher every time a child is born in the village and place it on his cradle. With a special wood, very ductile, they shape a circle, which represents the universe and inside it a web similar to that of a spider. The cobweb will therefore be entrusted with the task of capturing dreams. If it is a question of positive dreams, the dream catcher will entrust them to the thread of the beads (forces of nature) and make them come true. If, on the other hand, he judges them negative, he will entrust them to the feathers of a bird and have them carried away far away, scattering them in the skies.

HOMELESS IN THE WORLD

We can all think that poverty is a characteristic of certain undeveloped and economically behind countries. We can all imagine homeless people in bad places and bad weather. But instead thousands of poor people live in places where they should have assistance and help and instead have none. Why?
How do politicians eat their dinner and go to their children who live in a beautiful place if there are so many people out there without dinner? Isn't it absurd that politicians first of all think about spending money on guns instead of giving a home to all those people without a shelter?

What cities exist without these poor people who are ignored by everyone? I cry looking at these people because they seem not to exist for anyone and yet they are there and everyone can see them. Which cities are left without poverty? Is this the civilization we built? Is this progress? My grandparents are Italian and lived in a tiny village in Sicily. I have never seen anyone in that tiny village without a home. You ask me why? I don’t know but I can say that my grandparents used to say that after the war everyone tried to help each other. So is the civilization of aid over? The priests always gave food to those who didn’t have any, my grandparents told me this. Is religion over now then? What caused this inhuman humanity that helps no one? Politicians are all thieves and do not come to the government to help the people but only to demonstrate power and success. Why are we so bad? Why do we let this happen? I grew up with my generous and selfless grandparents but here where I live now there are a lot of selfish people with no love for others. What caused all this non-love for others?

Yet finding yourself like this is a moment, just being without a social network, losing your job, not being able to pay rent, not being able to find work, having had to deal with a separation, having a serious mental disorder, such as depression. People rarely become homeless by choice, at first they are thrown out, expelled from the system. Then a silent mutation takes place, we are transformed into invisible citizens, inhabitants of the interstices of the city, which becomes an improbable but only possible home. In the city, it is sometimes reduced to wandering in the throes of alcohol and hallucinations and then, exhausted, falling asleep at the mercy of the darkness of the night, of metropolitan life, of the street.

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