Rome, each morning like many others and that daily gesture that is repeated. Someone opens the windows and observes "the majesty of the Cuppolone" (St Peter’s Dome). My name is Laura and I was born here in Rome, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world where I lived until I was 25 years.
This is the city that welcomed my parents, who came to Rome to find work and where they lived most of their lives.
But I have never been able to do that gesture because I lived far from the 'Cuppolone' and I regret it for having lost a certainly heavenly and majestic image every morning. But I could have for that look gone further ... Just two hundred kilometres further, heading north east.
Because a part of my heart is more there.
They taught me the rhythm of its heartbeat, those who gave me life, who gave me Rome and above all ... Regedano and Stavellina. Two villages of Marche at 3.87 km the first, 4.30 km the other, the distances from the nearest municipality: Sassoferrato, province of Ancona, the Marche hinterland.
My dad was born in Regedano, my mom in Stavellina. And then there is me, and I know that my roots are here. Among these hills, these are my deepest origins.
Here in my refuge in Regedano, where I am writing these lines, I spent the summer months every year ... Here I have many memories of my childhood, adolescence, youth and adulthood.
Here, not surprisingly, my daughter Serena was born.
It is in this area that my roots have strengthened, grown and ... have borne fruit.
This is where the rhythm of my heart beats differently.
This is where it accelerates as soon as my eyes see that white sign with the word SASSOFERRATO.
Here my father is who at the "Festa de nuantre" organized by the community of Regedano, accompanied on the accordion with Nicolò Rossi sing their folk songs in the vernacular ...
That festival was really "de nuantre", of all of us who could not be part of that being together genuine, simple and very special at the same time.
Nicolò Rossi was a singer and poet of these magical places. Unique in seeing with the eyes of his heart and transforming into words what filtered through a very strong feeling. Which I can only make mine, also in these lines:
"Every child of yours ... even if you can't forget it ... Every village gives warmth, every spring knows how to quench its thirst ... Every district brightens the mind ... With the sunset you can see a painting and an immense and heavenly panorama ... Every voice resembles a prayer ... The firs, the old pine and oak trees, complete the work of a great painting of beauty ... ":
A few verses taken from his "Sassoferrato land of enchantment and poetry" are enough to outline a fresco of these enchanted places that welcomed me and my sister every summer. Turning into a poet too, my sister Milena, who in Roman dialect wrote about our return from vacation, about returning to the city after tasting:
"Mountains that look like giants ... the north wind sparkling in your nose ... the genuine things you binge on, in spite of any diet ...".
The verses of those who are not ashamed of not being able to tell about some island in the Indian Ocean, but are proud to have rested in Regedano!
If a place becomes poetry, it is something very special. Our Regedano, wonderfully described again by Nicolò Rossi ... "Our ancient village, of about sixteen mountain families ..." that men left in the winter to become lumberjacks around Rome, to then return to their brides, the old and the children, with the pledge, the gift of that hard work.
Returning to the foot of that Monte Strega, infinite majesty, which dominates the valley, on which the inhabitants of these places placed a blessed cross that protects the surrounding villages.
That mountain that continues to protect our home and the memories of the most carefree time of our life.
Every time I return here, and that mountain appears on the horizon announcing all the emotions that will reappear very strongly in my heart, I understand what these places have meant, the people I have met, the simplicity of life, our roots.
Regedano, each morning like many others and that daily gesture that is repeated.
Open the windows and observe the majesty of Monte Strega which continues to protect our memories, which watches over our present, which makes us still hope for a peaceful future.
That mountain: the most sacred of our cuppoloni ...
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