Wandering Roots - October 2024
Cockerels crow, dogs bark and I (do not) howl and roar.
Welcome to Wandering Roots, a monthly newsletter from me, A Woman Who Wanders.
After buying a house at the beginning of June, I had a slight wobble regarding my identity (online and otherwise.)
Am I still a woman who wanders? I asked, and it turns out that I am, but I am also, now, a woman who roots. This newsletter will offer updates on my progress, as I marry my wandering and rooting together.
You can expect to read about:
The ongoing journey of adjusting to life in rural Italy (learning the language, adapting to the culture)
The renovation of my Italian house
Mothering abroad (and in general)
Learning how to grow plants (lots of them edible, I hope)
How I’m figuring out a makeshift career while I don’t have a strong proficiency in the language that surrounds me
Plus recommendations for things I’m enjoying, in Italy, and online.
The Mysterious Mr Cockerel and the Mysterious Signor Gallo
A cockerel made his way into my life in the summer of 2020 as my daughter made her way out of my body. She was born around 11pm one Sunday and the morning after, I heard a cockerel crow outside our window.
It would not be unusual where we live now, in rural Piedmont, but it was a strange occurrence there, in our apartment near the centre of a city.
Mr. Cockerel, as we inventively named him, was a handsome specimen but he lacked his tail feathers. No doubt he had exchanged them for his life before taking up residence in the tree outside our window.
A few weeks after his arrival the police showed up at my door and I managed a basic conversation in my broken Italian.
“Have you seen a cockerel around here?” they asked me, “Does it bother you?”
“No,” I replied.
“No, you haven’t seen one?”
“No, it doesn’t bother me.”
“Does it bother the people in the apartments above?”
I pointed up and shrugged as if to say, “you can ask them.”
They asked for my name. I obliged. They asked for my ID and I obediently handed them my passport. I was, of course, left at ease in the knowledge that our tax euros were being used to keep our streets safe from tail-less chickens on the run.
Mr. Cockerel stayed in the tree outside for the first year of my daughter’s life. He got braver and braver. He ventured further and further. Once I even saw him cross the road. No joke…
Slowly, his tail grew back.
Then, a few weeks after Nabila turned one, and a few weeks before we left Italy for South Africa, the mornings were silent. He was gone.
We like to think he strutted along, shaking that new tail feather, and found a nice plump Ms. Hen somewhere. One who had been dreaming of a brave and well-travelled Mr. Cockerel to cluck off with, into the sunset.
Since then, cockerels have become a comforting symbol for me, particularly with regard to my decisions as a mother. When I see one unexpectedly it feels like a clue, a confirmation that I’m on track.
When we first came to visit my daughter’s school, here in this random location in rural Italy, I had a gut-feeling this was the place. I felt certain that I could pack up my whole life and move here. Though it seemed crazy to do so for a kindergarten, I dared to imagine the possibility as we drove these winding country roads. Then, we passed an old farmhouse. On top of it was a chimney and on top of the chimney was a stone cockerel. Maybe I was on track.
So we settled here, for a kindergarten. I continue to care for my children and, in addition, I now have a house and two agricultural fields to worry about.
Back in August, we planted two mulberry trees to mark the corners of our field. A field that had already been planted with soya by a mysterious farmer that we couldn’t locate. One afternoon in early October a huge combine harvester scraped the surrounding fields along with my little patch in the middle.
We went to check on our baby mulberry trees and they were still there. They had lost a lot of their leaves but new ones were also growing on those cute little branches.
A few days later a stranger from a distant village turned up at my door. He was the mystery farmer who rents the land surrounding our plot. Noticing our baby mulberries, and figuring someone had been there, he had started searching for us, asking around his contacts in our village.
He asked if he could use our land for the next season and, initially, I felt uncertain. How do these negotiations go? Should I ask for rent? Maybe a bag of grain? In the end we agreed that, if he would very careful with our beloved baby mulberries and also share his experience and insights with us in the future, should we need them he could continue to farm the land for now.
We asked for his name and number in case we needed to be in touch.
Gallo, is what he said. His name is Gallo. It’s Italian for cockerel.
The farmer currently working our field is Signor Gallo.
Mr. Cockerel.
I think I’m on track.
Compost Bin for Free? Yes Please!
While Signor Gallo is taking care of the large plot, we’ve been getting started with the back garden. My neighbour gave me some thyme which I’ve planted in a bed just outside the kitchen and we’ve also got a compost going.
When my husband went to the council to register our new address and activate refuse collection he came home with a compost bin. Apparently, the council gives them for free along with enzymes to speed up the process and a strange pointy stick to mix it all up with.
Truffles Keep Me Quiet About Noisy Dogs
Our neighbour has three noisy dogs. Most of the time I don’t notice them but, every now and then, they start yelping and screeching at 2 am. It’s not fun.
But do you know what is fun? Free truffles from our neighbour because it turns out they’re truffle dogs!
He goes out every morning during the season and often returns with a handful of black truffles. The other day he had a pea-sized white one. Twice in his life he’s found a white truffle so big he couldn’t fit it in his bag. Last year was one of those times and he sold it for EUR 650.
The Olive Harvest!
As I wrote about last month, there’s an olive tree in my garden that offers me so much peace. This month it has also offered absolute delight and excitement as we picked the olives.
Delight and excitement and a shadow of grief.
Muhammad started the harvest with the kids while I was on a zoom call. Our two-year-old was already bored and searching for me by the time I made it outside, but our four-year-old was still sitting underneath the tree, rolling the olives gently beneath her hands while singing an Arabic nursery rhyme to herself. I didn’t even know she knew the words.
My husband is Palestinian. My daughter is too. Those songs are a part of him and his heritage and they are also a part of her. They are connected to that heritage in a way that can never be severed.
I sat down to help them separate the olives from the leaves while Muhammad shared childhood memories of the olive moussem (season) when he and all his cousins would be roped into picking olives.
“This one tree has taken an hour, can you imagine fields of them? It’s so boring”
But he didn’t look bored to me. His eyes were twinkling and he was completely engrossed in the task. And I wasn’t bored. I was trying to soak up every precious God-given moment with my healthy, alive, thriving Palestinian children. Inwardly I was dancing with joy, howling with grief and roaring with rage and defiance. Outwardly I was sitting, my hands moving back and forth, sorting olives from leaves.
My journey through joy, grief and rage led me silently to the destination of deep deep gratitude.
For my partner and the people and place he comes from.
For the people and places I come from.
For our separation from them, as we are carried by the winds of change, like scattered seeds. So painful, so full of possibility.
For our children, the product of our wandering genetic pools.
For this land, where we now find ourselves settled a little and where something has started to grow.
For the spectacular olive tree that also springs from that land and the gorgeous mound of olives she generously offers us.
We had no way of weighing them but, at an estimate, it was over 10kg of olives. Our neighbour said she’d never seen so many come off that tree. We took them to a nearby press and got 1.2 litres of olive oil.
It’s peppery and warm. I wish I could share it with all of you. We could very literally break bread together and dip it into that delicious green goodness.
How is Your Heart Today?
Do you have any stories of strange animal companions? Or recurring signs/symbols/dreams that feel significant and/or comforting?
Which simple practices, like fingers separating leaves from olives, offer you simplicity and groundedness when this spinning world feels overwhelming?
I’d love to hear any answers you feel like sharing.
Keep wandering, my friends, in body, heart or mind.
Rahma x
I love reading about your experiences and adventures Rahma ❤️. Such a beautiful rich life, Allahuma Barik. Lots of love ❤️
I loved reading this Rahma! So tender and poetic, wholesome and inspiring. Also, your words “this random location in rural Italy, I had a gut-feeling this was the place. I felt certain that I could pack up my whole life and move here” resonate deeply. I didn’t expect to land at a decision during our visit, it was more of a fact-finding trip to a “random” location (we too would have never considered had it not been for. VFS) and yet we (Aaron and I) quietly, with a felt sense of calm clarity and peace feel like we’ve found somewhere worth packing up our whole lives for.
Ps. Hoping we get to actually enjoy helping you out with your olive harvest next year (should you ever want to share the celebration/an extra pair of hands)…and dipping bread!