Unplanned joy, unplanned post

Good morning and have a terrific day, folks!


P.S. Where’s the fun of having the body of a teenager if once in a while you don’t dress like one?


Book review: “Be the Cause: Healing Human Disconnect”

After a sudden pause, about three weeks ago I resumed meditating every morning and one day, I found myself crying on the porridge pot while I was thinking about my parents. I didn’t understand immediately why I was doing it, but I was imaging to speak with them, telling them all the things I had buried inside myself over the years and I couldn’t stop crying. It was not a cry out of relief or joy for all the good things we shared. I was crying for all the harm they have done to me. I think that meditation brought to the surface the ugly truth about my childhood and that, previously, I had stopped meditating to avoid this discovery.

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17. The moment you don’t want to live

David was riding his mother’s bicycle from the hospice to the town centre, his doctor bag in the white wicker basket at the front, his mood well below the street level. It was half past noon, and he was sweaty and increasingly hungry. His mother’s ride was an old lady bike, heavy as a transatlantic and fast as a wheelbarrow, and David had to push it up the only hill in the outskirt of the town, close to the old graveyard. At least, when he was a kid, he had a mountain bike. But all David could find in his father’s garage that morning, was that stiff Dutch bike.

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15. Great expectations​

The morning after, the new doctor felt even worse.

He took a deep breath, stopped the alarm clock with a blind gesture and moaned. He moved his hair from his eyelids and blinked a couple of times at the sight of his old bedroom. He had fallen asleep listening to a longing song; he had dreamt about Sandra, and he was now staring at the cover art for The Dark side of the Moon.

“Twenty years down the drain.”

Still laying down on his belly, David stretched out an arm from the bed to reach the poster. He took the loose end at the bottom between two fingers and raised it up, but Bo Derek wasn’t there anymore. Instead of the smile of the hot blonde woman, there was a moody reddish teenager in a black sweater, staring at him with her hands in her head. With a red marker, David’s father had written the words “for a change” right under the kid’s chin. A little white label at the bottom of the poster told the name of the teen: Claire Danes.

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The rose in the name

I make them call me Nina, but name is Annarosa

Why I hate my name, I do not know

for my name is graceful with petals and thorns.

I don’t think it started with the bullying at school. I already hated my name. Even when I was a baby girl, with no idea to leave the country, I found that my name was too long and too Italian. I thought it had an old sound and was rather laughable. I knew more than one version of the name Anna + Rosa* and the pink flowered part was always at the start, not in the end, like a useless appendix.

Even if my mother tried to give me reasons, like traditions and stuff, I could not understand why she had imposed upon me such a ridiculous name. My beloved grandma was simply Anna and everybody loved her. Like her name, she was a cheerful, pragmatic woman. I had that smelly appendix, and people started to say that, like my name, I should have petals/grace and thorns. Over-watching The Rose of Versailles as a child did not help at all with this idea of romance and pain and the refusal of one’s femininity.

Then school time came, and the dull name jokes came as well. In the beginning, they were just dumb; then I gained weight, and the worst of all the nicknames was born: Ciccia-rosa. I think it translates with “Pink-fatty” or something like that. I don’t know how English speaking people like to serve self-hatred to plump children. After a while, I ceased being fat and while stupid people were still thinking how to call me next (they tend no to process things too quickly) I left the old town to study at the University in the big city. New people asked me what my name was and I pragmatically answered Anna, with a smile. All my new friends called me Anna and most of them still do, even if they have discovered my real name. My husband still has my number in his phone book under the name Anna Metal. But that is another story.

I think that in a way, that stupid idea of romance and pain tied to the symbology of the rose affected me a little. And the silly names at school? Yes, the kids were responsible for the mean things they were doing but I was the first to feel shame for that rose in my name. Because it is too traditional, too feminine. I have to face it, I am not a pragmatic and cheerful person. Or, at least, I am a little but there is something more. I do have a soft spot for stories of passion and pain. This theme is almost in everything I write. I do love roses and everything that is feminine . I do treasure my culture and my native language. I am more Italian, more emotional, more feminine than I wanted to be, and that’s ok. I am Anna and I am Rose, but you can always call me Nina and that’s all.

* The word “rosa”, in Italian, could indicate both for the colour pink and the flower rose.