Ten years have passed since I began working with friends at L'Alveare, our small workshop. For ten years now, every Thursday from October through June—from four to seven in the evening—ten, fifteen, twenty of us have gathered: friends and people with intellectual disabilities, coming together. We design and make small objects to be displayed and sold. We talk. We have tea. But mostly, we work. Now it's time for those of us who assist, and for our disabled friends, to take stock.
These days I did just that—a personal accounting of what these ten years have meant. Here's what I found.
I have learned:
From Maria, the joy of giving. So many times I watched her arrive with flowers and leaves for our arrangements, with apples and chestnuts from her farm, with tea, with small candies she'd quietly offer us during work. Her face shone with happiness and satisfaction.
From Annunziata, authentic passion for work done well, the visible pride she took in our friends' compliments, the delight in solving a difficulty together, in finding the right color, the perfect flower.
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From Stefania, unbounded joy at seeing each other again, the importance of a warm greeting, of gestures of friendship, the warmth that comes from feeling chosen and valued by someone.
From Giacomo, what true welcome means. Nothing like our polite "hello, how are you, glad to see you." No—Giacomo's welcome is a dance of joy for each newcomer, a spontaneous celebration. There must be singing, clapping, official announcement of the arrival, lit candles, sweets if possible.
From Silvia, seriousness in commitment and the willpower that let her overcome different moods, melancholy and discouragement, in her encounters with others, in her desire to do, to contribute, until she found again the pleasure of being together and of solidarity.
From Pietro, the effort to adapt to different situations, to control his own strength and exuberance for the sake of others and the common good, together with the pleasure of "exploding" now and then to stir things up and brighten the room.
From Antonio, simplicity in trusting others, in calmly accepting his own limits. His humor is precious—it comes from a particular way of seeing things and allows him to defuse, with a knowing and patient smile, an awkward remark or a misplaced rebuke. Because, as Antonio reminds us, what really matters is that we are friends, that we are together: everything else deserves a smile, even a laugh.
From all of them, faithfulness to their commitment alongside the ability to forgive, to forget or to understand the inconsistency of others, their limits, their uncertainties, their mistakes.
This is what I have learned over these years. I've also become skilled at craftswork—something I knew nothing about before. I've discovered that I can make things with others, things people like and want to buy. I've formed real friendships. I've spent entire afternoons here—sometimes demanding ones—but always in an atmosphere of friendship, of searching, of celebration.
This is what I've learned and felt over these ten years. But I know that unless you've experienced a workshop like this, you might find it hard to believe any of it is possible.
— Maria Teresa Mazzarotto, 1999