I am from the seductive, isolated hills in Liguria with silver green and swaying olives, explosive yellow ginestra, intoxicating Verbena and perfumed Damascena roses that adorn my higher terraces. I am from the earth and rocks, my hands sinewed like the roots of the olives, gnarly and old, scratched to smithereens like the damaged bark bashed by excavators but stronger and more resilient than ever. I am from the simple farmers who work the land from dawn to dusk, remembering the sacred nature of our soil and the plentiful, wholesome produce, that responds just like my four footed companions, to the love and respect it is offered. Simple pleasures they may be but in my personal and cultural madness, I had forgotten my roots, lost touch with my own cycles and rhythms, how my very own terrain is intimately connected to the web of life. I am from the hidden, dilapidated rustico, that is a dark, yet fecund space of pure potential, asking to be restored, longing to be recognised for the divine womb space that in its moist darkness, will offer unlimited potentials to all who have ears to hear and eyes to see. I am from a prayer uttered from the depths of my being, that called me to this land ten years ago, a soul whispering I chose to listen to. I am from Pozzuolo here in Italy, that is my soul home, where I know every rock and tree that exists, every stone that has been built by strong male hands to create structure and safety in this womb haven. This land, this sacred task that has demanded blood, sweat and tears, every ounce of my creative initiative and finance, while I screamed at the unfairness of what was being asked of me, that has miraculously brought me back to my body and to my sanity. I am the land that I naively came to conquer in my own version of toxic patriarchy, now re-shaped and modelled after stamping HER feet, teaching me about humility and devotion. Ruthlessly beautiful and refusing to be dominated. I am from Mother Gaia, reminding me with her green outpourings in the smell of the damp moss, the succulent taste of the prickly pears and figs, the lovemaking of the bees, to be here right now, honouring, in reverence for HER, for the HOLY grace that she has always poured on me and on the world.
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