More Nature
Thank you for your issue on nature. I have always valued it as the great "healer" for our disabled friends and all of us. And thank you to Mariangela Bertolini, whose editorial brought out nature's calming power—its capacity to bridge communication, kindle quiet joy, and nurture self-expression. There is something soothing and maternal in nature. I think especially of those with severe disabilities, for whom a green garden, a stand of ancient trees, or even a simple bouquet of flowers can bring comfort and delight. I think of the small fountain bubbling in the courtyard at Trosly, where Jean Vanier's first community was born—I think of its light, joyful song and the refreshment it spreads all around. The beautiful things that come from nature are the most beautiful things that exist. I wish that hospitals, clinics, and laboratories had more flowers, more cascading ivy leaves—properly protected for hygiene—and perhaps, in the courtyard, a fountain with running water. I wish that all our disabled friends, those with mental illness, people in difficulty, could often enjoy the comfort of contact with nature.
Maria Ricci
The Need to Speak
Hello, my name is Anna Maria and I am a disabled girl. Specifically, I suffer from spasticity with motor disorders. For two years now I have known and read Ombre e Luci, and I have finally found a magazine that speaks about us disabled people in such an affectionate and magical way. Reading Ombre e Luci, I often found myself thinking it would be wonderful if, beyond speaking about disabled people, they also spoke—if disabled people themselves could speak (those of us who are able!)
Let me explain! I have always felt the need to speak with someone who shares my same difficulties, to compare experiences and encourage each other, so we would not feel so alone in the dark and cold periods of our lives. I live in Gaeta with my family: Mama, Papa, and three siblings—one of whom is my twin. We are a close family where I have always been treated as a "normal" person, included in everything that happens and in all decisions, big or small. We make them together.
I will always be grateful for that.
I very much want to help the outside world understand my need to find an environment like this, one that makes me feel "normal." But sometimes the outside world thinks it has the right to decide things for us. Perhaps they do this because they believe we only need to be helped, loved, and protected. But we want to be like everyone else!
I am thirty years old. For eight years I have been part of a community near my home where, beyond experiencing friendship and brotherly help, we also live out the dimension of work together. We have created a cooperative where both people without disabilities and we disabled people work.
In a way, it is what I have always wanted, and truly I feel guilty toward them—but I do not feel good about myself and what I do. I experience moments of joy, but often my spirits sink to the ground.
Perhaps it is I who want who knows what. But the world of the disabled is this, and it feels too tight for me and often it suffocates me.
I often tell myself: "Let the world go on, and you sit and watch it." I must say it works for a while, but then my fighting spirit resurfaces and I begin tilting at windmills again.
I would very much like to become a girl who, in my own small way, can guide disabled people to redeem themselves and bring out the best in us without fear and without limitations from others—in a way that indirectly helps me too.
In my experience in the community, I already live this in part, and I can say that when we disabled people come together, a magical atmosphere is created where we are simply ourselves without the anxiety of having to show something to someone. It is also thanks to my community that I am growing into these things. Indeed, with them, through joy and sorrow, I am taking steps forward that in the past I did not have the courage to take. But there is still so much for them to learn from us and for us to learn from them. If any disabled person or anyone else would like to write to me, it would make me immensely happy.
A big kiss and a big smile
Anna Maria Camelia
Francesca
Francesca was born in Florence, where she lives with her parents and a twelve-year-old sister. Francesca has hydrocephalus: she is blind, can hear only with her left ear, and is semi-reclined in a wheelchair.
She first entered a public facility at age six, in a municipal nursery school. She attended for three years and then moved into elementary school, where she remained for five years.
At fourteen, she enrolled in middle school. She was welcomed into a 1st B class of twenty students, several of whom had been with her in elementary school.
This allows Francesca to stay with classmates who already know her and can respond adequately to some of her emotional needs: being touched, being held in particular positions, being understood as she makes certain movements.
Francesca's inclusion in middle school is not aimed at reaching cognitive goals, but rather at allowing her to remain as much as possible with the other students—whose presence and physical closeness she perceives when they touch her, caress her, and speak to her.
In these moments Francesca always reacts positively: she sketches a smile, makes sounds, reaches out her hand, moves.
This is her third year attending middle school, always with the same classmates, who remain caring and affectionate. They have even written poems dedicated to Francesca, expressing their feelings of love and their sense of her presence as an active and shared factor in growing together (Ombre e Luci hopes to publish them soon).
Within the context of educational activities, the class has participated in ethnic music sessions that engage Francesca through hearing and touch—the channels we use to stay in contact with her. In this way, the web of relationships around Francesca grows steadily wider.
Giovanna Romano, Vanna Graziani