(continued)
Today I went to my mother's house and found a little plant that I had put there to recover, after having informed everyone, in a secluded place in the huge garden, overturned because of a large branch that had been stuck inside it. I felt a pang in my stomach. I phoned my sister to ask her if she knew who, and especially why, had done this, given that I had warned them, knowing that she, for almost two years after my mother's surgery, manages the property without any sharing.
was very frustrated and my voice must have reflected that. She shouted into the phone "if they had to pay for everything I do ..!" .. then I felt the sharpest blow when, accusing me of never going to see my mother, she repeatedly shouted at me "you have to stop! You've got to stop, do you understand?..."
I froze. I didn't understand precisely what I had to stop, but instead a very clear picture came to me, a wrenching pain: the migraine that day was unbearable, I was in bed in the dark. My daughter, not even two years old, my love, was in the bathroom in our house in Milan and while she was busy with her activities, she would call me, in a joyful repeating singing, without any urgent reason, perhaps just because I was her mummy and she liked to sing mammain every possible tune .. I defied the nausea that was making me stagger and went to her, put my hands on her arms and repeatedly told her 'you have to stop', trying to be strong but calm. In the past ten years I have apologised to my daughter for many things, I miss this one.
Now "thanks" to my sister, I think I know why we said it, but only the superficial reason why - that is, how we felt desperate in those respective situations, but then we have to understand the deep why, if we want it never to happen again.
My mother told me many times that my conception had been a mistake, and that the first few nights I cried and screamed and my parents kept an eye on me, but left me crying in the cot.
My first three years of life were void of family life of any kind, but I guess that - with our move to the South and the definitive degradation of the relationship between my parents, the reunion of my siblings who until then, had lived separately with each of our grandparents - they were filled with tension and jealousy. Of the years in Turin, I only remember much sadness sucking my thumb on an armchair in the den, seeking shelter from the arguments that seemed to be more likely to happen in the living room.
Arriving in Sardinia when I was 6 years old, the school teacher asked my family for help as I wouldn't stay sitting at mydesk (today it would be explained as ADHD, attention deficit hyperactivity syndrome): my sister stayed next to me for a few days. My father left us to go to America. My brother became more and more violent. My sister spent a lot of time out with friends. My mother spent many afternoons out, for school or social engagements. Sometimes she would bring me along, but mostly I spent many long afternoons alone in the big flat where I turned on all the lights I could out of fear.
I would lock myself in the bathroom, playing perfumer in the mirror, explaining to the invisible customer the qualities of my mother's cosmetics, and making pretty little packages. The hours passed and the fear began to rise that mum had had an accident; so I moved to the balcony, looking out over the big street to try and catch a glimpse of mum coming. When she came into the house, she brought life back to me, but then the furious arguments with my brother resumed. No help was called that I remember. I loved to read, especially Mickey Mouse comic books, and to play with little plastic animals in the fort that was meant for soldiers, or outdoors. A big treat was going with my mother to the countryside to fill tanks of water to bring back home because of the draughts, or better still to the perfumery.
A rare moment of pure joy was when my father visited with us, and maybe he and I would walk through the city centre hand in hand; or being tucked in by him at night, with a caress. Only thing is, those joyous moments were inevitably followed by the (not-so-much)question: “You don't mind, right, that I have to go away?" I just nodded, crumbling inside, and never replied in case I would ruin that chance too. I felt like a tasked with something that I had to hide from my everyday life.
Playing with my peers was great! I occasionally took part in play groups, only at the request of my girlfriend L.. I enjoyed it a lot, it was for me a fantastic world where I could see children interacting and expressing themselves without restraint, even if they often laughed at me. I realised later that I was different for them. Although I was an exuberant, playful and affectionate child, I didn't know how to manage social situations. In my family, laughter was expressed with bitter sarcasm, my sharing often provoked derision or silence, debate caused aggressive reactions. In the play group I was unarmed, passive, so I guess not funny. Sometimes my friend L. would invite me to her house and I was happy.
Perhaps seeing my mother often threatened, verbally and physically harassed by my brother, and hearing that he also attacked my sister, kept me from reacting when they were mean to me: when my mother shouted "big belly" at me because I was taking my time getting ready, or when she and my sister would shush my chattiness with which I liked to entertain them during travels, sitting at the centre of the back seat of the car. I remember the feeling of shame when my sister, sitting next to my mother, would say to me "you never shut up, you sound like Aunt M.": Aunt M. was considered very bad in the family, especially with regard to the separation of my parents. I felt like a traitor! Who knows, maybe my sister wanted to express solidarity with mum.
I was thrilled when, at the age of eight, I took the plane to visit my father in London, but then the guilt began: on the way back, my mother and sister would ask me for details, and I would enthusiastically recount what I had experienced. For example, that my father had introduced me to his "housekeeper" (but then I saw that were sleeping together), and then malicious bitter jokes and sarcastic complaints from my mother and sister would ensue. I loved my father, but in those moments I felt betrayed and trapped on all sides.
One night I woke up from a nightmare, calling 'mum, my bed is full of ants!" and she answered from afar "Count them!"
I had no such problems with my best friend, Fuffy the foxy little dog at my maternal grandparents. Coming from that icy loneliness o symbiosis with my mother, I would breath during the holidays in Modena at my grandparents', and I was enraptured by nature. Thanks to his emotional intelligence, with Fuffy, who was brave and accustomed to country life, I wasn't afraid of making false steps and disappointing someone. On the contrary, Fuffy was always ready to help me even physically, for example to climb out of a ditch. He was my invincible hero, or so I thought. In the meantime, without my father, we moved to Modena, I was in middle school and I couldn't believe I could spend more time at my grandmother's with Fuffy. But she started travelling and often the house remained closed. Even though a helper took care of the dog, I asked my mother if I could take Fuffy home to the city for a few days. As I thought, he turned out to be very well able to adjust to the different rhythms and I was allowed to keep him for a while. Without knowing it, I exposed my darling to my brother's temper. So I took him back to his environment, convinced that he was safe. But one day ... the country road leading to Grandma's house stood out in the cold, livid afternoon. Mum and I arrived in the car, and as soon as we entered the courtyard I jumped out to meet Fuffy, who strangely enough hadn't already come to greet me. I looked towards the gate and saw my brother coming on foot, but from the direction of the river.
He saw me and I looked at him, reaching out, with a heavy feeling in my heart, to ask him if he had seen Fuffy. But I did not have time to utter a word, when he told me that the dog was gone, that he had been hit by a car. I felt my head spin, a cold stone made me feel unable to ask for details, to know where my loved one was. Never ever. After more than 45 years, on 24 October 2020, I was lucky enough to be invited by Rabbi David, at my dear West London Synagogue, to a memorial service for our pets. I finally said goodbye to my Fuffy.
LiOr (continued)
It is still the first week of the Omer, whose theme is Chesed, Love. The 4th of the Omer is dedicated to Netzach she'be Chesed, perseverance in love. The mother of Moses, Yocheved, feeds her newborn baby for three months until, unable to hide him longer from Pharaoh, she weaves a basket and leaves Moses in it, entrusting him to the Nile. Yocheved's love is strengthened by netzach, the confidence that she can overcome any obstacle. In fact, Moses is saved by an Egyptian princess, who asks Yocheved to feed him! This is netzach she'be chesed, the power of love to create extraordinary possibilities. We mirror ourselves in Yocheved, mother of Miriam, Moses and Aaron, when we believe in the power of our love. (https://www.ritualwell.org/ritual/omer-4)
Photo: ‘Moses’ mother’ by Alexey_Tyranov.