But no, I can't do anything without turning it into a competition, and sometimes that's a flaw. Romi once told me there's no point playing if you're not trying to win. I wonder what she'd make of a Fede e Luce gathering? Fede e Luce—what even is it? Colors, variety, coming home with your eyes full of images and a little noise in your soul, then stopping to think and suspecting it might all be a bit shallow too.
Spring Olympics. Matteo goes all-out in the shot put; Nanni teases him for being so serious about everything he does. Filippo records the throw distances and makes a green checkmark on my shoe when Nella's powerful toss hits me square on. A basket that misses but still counts as half a point "because we're at Fede e Luce"—everyone sees it differently. Carlo will get angry anyway if the rules get broken. Daniele will cheer like mad for his team and, if it comes down to it, for his mother. Paola won't understand what game we're playing, but she'll be happy if a cute boy is helping her. And at the end, medals for everyone—though heaven help you if you mess with the rankings.
In this courtyard, at these gatherings, my way of being often shatters. I love the multiplicity of viewpoints on any question, but I also struggle to stake out my own position. My sense of Fede e Luce keeps forming like a mosaic made of confused pieces. The question is whether there will be an image when it's done.
But in a circle once, I said I come here willingly because "I feel at home"—I'm loved for who I am, despite everything! At home, they often love you as children, but they also expect you to be a "child": a person for whom they want nothing but happiness, even as they hold expectations for you. As if the young people here at Fede e Luce didn't expect anything from you. They ask for nothing and expect "only" that you love them—as if free, undemanding love were simple. I suspect it's the hardest thing there is. When we love someone, in theory we want only their love in return, but really the ask is far more complex, and selfishly so.
I don't know why there's sometimes this absurd tendency to think that doing so-called "good" requires suffering. At Fede e Luce, you give and you're happy. Then maybe a crisis hits, you feel like you should be doing more, but there aren't many middle grounds to retreat into. Building bonds and responsibility means letting your tame fox love the wheat because it reminds her of the color of your hair—but making her cry when you leave. How do you explain that to Paola? That you're not coming to see her anymore because you've moved to Milan, or because you've decided to leave Fede e Luce?
V.C. - 2003