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| Bla...bla...this and that...once upon a time... |
I often considered doing what many friends have been suggesting for a while: write about my life. My answer has always been the same: I don't write well, particularly in English (!!!); my life is not so special to deserve to be shared; there are too many books out there that go unread into the black holes of the Universe. The truth is though, that each life is unique. Your life is unique, just like his, hers, ours. But they are unique for ourselves, seldom for others.
But..., ok, yes, I want to try to jot down some memories and current experiences. We shall see. Be good to me!
NOW AND THEN
A Random History of my Life
Introduction
Because memory is a gift no longer available after a certain age, it's difficult to remember the name of the person you just met, or the article it took 30 minutes to read. We have to accept this. But memories from one's past come back, during the day, when you read but your mind refuses to focus, when you listen to a long chat on the phone, and during the night when you dream or have nightmares, when...when...when. Luckily most go away as fast and mysteriously as they came to us! And these memories sit at the bottom of your corners, scattered around in the mind and body to create a useful basket of facts our brain can manipulate to create...WISDOM!
Chapter One
Since about a year ago or so, I realize that it became easy for me to be a "counselor". Until then, if someone would ask for advice, I knew I was not going to be able to open my mouth quickly as my teeth were sticking together in terror... waiting for something to say to come up. Not anymore. The memory of a long life full of amazing experiences, people, fun and sad events create a sort of alliance among them and, voila', my opinion is ready and clear and I can advise, in a way that makes sense, and can even prove useful!
Here is where memories from the past come in! While listening to the friend in trouble, I receive an image of myself. University, studying with two friends, sitting on a pale green couch overlooking, through a gable, the river Po, that runs through Turin. We have on our laps those gigantic law books that I never managed to find interesting. I couldn't understand much, nor follow the discussion among THEM. My friends who learned quickly, who even understood what we were reading. Those two who didn't see my struggle, didn't pay attention to me, didn't care about my panic attacks. Didn't say a word to convince me that I was OK. I panicked, tears would begin dropping on my skirt (no pants then, unless when you skied!). I wanted them to SEE me, talk to me, and tell me that I was not stupid. Nothing. I saw my friends like in a cloud, happy, chirping, repeating long sentences about law...I was invisible. My heart was aching. I would resolve to screaming out loud: I think I'm stupid!!!!
The result was always the same, after quickly staring at me they would laugh and say "What??!!"
The same feelings, other circumstances. A Greek Island, gorgeous, hardly any tourist. It was my third visit. Many friends came with me. 16 hours between blue sea and burning sun (I am now covered with freckles and dark spots...), then dancing sirtaki all night. What was I doing when we were all walking up to the house I rented for us? I would gradually slow down my pace in order to stay behind and then get depressed! I would wait for someone to turn around, noticing I was not with them but alone, far away (not so far, really...) and sad, very sad. I needed someone to say "why are you behind? Something wrong?" Nothing of that ever happened because nobody could imagine that the most vivacious of all, laughing, diving, and dancing happily day and night, had something like that in her mind. Who would?
I can assure you that I was more than miserable, I was desperate (although it was over as soon as we reached home and change for dinner!). Truly.
Now I know that things happen for a reason. Since I was the happiest little girl during childhood and growing up, I had to experience, although not seriously, the feeling of depression and of being alone and misunderstood if I wanted to fend my way through life without a lifesaver. I did, I indeed survived all the bad experiences, each time feeling stronger, each time feeling I was equipped for victory. By myself.
My friends never found out how "cruel" they have been with me. Some are no longer with us. But I remember their happy and intelligent faces while I was feeling stupid, weak, alone.
Thank you for not noticing, now I can help others. If you had noticed I would always look for help outside myself.
Something else. A few days ago I read about an Italian organization that takes care of young people from poor countries who come to Italy to study. I first searched on Facebook, then I also searched for more information on the Internet. And BANG...the name of the village where it is based is that of a place where I have been incredibly happy while growing up. A hilly area famous for its vineyards and small farms. My family bought that place to hide during fascism, when possible. For me that place is synonymous of happiness, freedom, where I learned the friendship with animals and about their loyalty.
Thanks to that Google search and to my never ending curiosity I travelled back to the twin calves of my beloved cow Mora, that allowed me to raise one with the bottle while she was nursing the other (I will never forget the lovely nose covered with milk!!);
the goose chicks who lost their mother, the eggs laid under a helpful mommy turkey, and then in my shirt's pocket. I can still feel their tiny beaks eating bright yellow corn flower directly from my mouth!
Then, during my search I found a new page talking about restoring a beautiful gate now in disrepair. OMG....it is MY gate that opened to the farm!!!!!!!! That I didn't remember, until I saw it and suddenly it was like a movie. Me with the boy I grew up with, Marco, on an oxcart. getting the oxen from the stable, tying them to the cart, opening the gate and off into the fields! We were less than 10 years old for sure. With big pitchforks we would work hard lifting hey until the cart was so high we could hardly climb to the top. I can still feel the pride of coming home to the farm, open the gate having accomplished a tremendous job.
The search blessed me with another image of the farm. The label of a wine now produced there has the design of the building that saw my most exciting and "extreme" adventures, never again to be performed! The hayloft and the stable, which you can't see but that it was right below the lofts. Those were the places for "extreme" activities (i.e. forbidden to the children...) like jumping many levels of hey stacks, hiding for hours, and talking with the cows all with their warm look in their eyes who would turn around to greet me every time I would open the stable door. This was not forbidden but only BEFORE the evening bath....
Going to bed now hoping for some dreams and late night Google searches to give me some other bits of memories, enough for another chapter.
Thank you Patrizia for taking the time to write some of your memories. Actually, I think you have had a very interesting life. Can't wait 'til you get to the part about your Mother and Khrushchev!
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