Ok maybe tomorrow

On this coldish Thursday of may, with the wind sweeping cats and stripes of tattered clouds in a sky that is the colour of a torquoise, off I went together with two delightful irish ladies and a lovely chinese girl (who has lived in Ireland for the last fifteen years) for one of my very special walks in the Eternal City. I will not, of course, tell you what we saw and what I said (this you might discover one day, joining me for a two hour spiritual tour…), and how Augustus came to life and seemed one and all with us, walking in a City that was his and is no more. Up we went on the Capitol Hill, threading on Michelangelo’s magnificent staircase, made for happy human feet, and, oh, the beauties of the Forum seen from up above, under the sacred presence of the Roman twins, one and all, the first king of the little town hich would be great! There, yes, there, the Palatine, where Augustus lived in simplicity, loving as he did the “antiqui mores” of his ancestors… Here, right here, the arch of Septimius Severus, the African emperor who lived in Leptis Magna (its pink remains in Lybia I always craved to see and never did and maybe never will…), and while I am there, telling how Tiberius succeded in being Augusto’s successor against the will of the great Pontifex Maximus, through the charms and bets of his great mother Livia, my cellphone rings. I answer. It is Mrs G., the lady who keeps my bank account, and she goes on merrily: “Hellò! Do you have a daughter? Have you ever thought of having a supplementary pension?”. Ok, maybe tomorrow.

To contact me for a two hours walk in Rome: bennidv@alice.it or mbennidv@gmail.com  I'll be more than happy to give you all the details.

Spring in Rome

Summer in Cala Gorgolu /Sardinia), the place I love

I do not know what spring is; if it is solely pure breath of life waking up after the white chill, in the breast of the ancient earth, I hardly know. It could be the everlasting  dance of life and death, concealed to most and showing itself in the sparkling white of the little daisies and in the dimple blue of the forgetmenots that bloom overnight colouring the green patches of grass in the Eternal City. I do not know what sacred spring is, but I did see it freeing her pink ribbons in the pale blue sky some days ago as I was walking down the Fori imperiali to catch the 85 bus. I saw her softly loosening the pony tails of a group of young flowery girls and in the pic nic that a couple of oldies was taking in the midst of the Colle Oppio park. I saw spring in all her beauty, inviting all creatures to dance at her lovely, scented rhythm. I saw it as the ancient Romans used to see her, picturing her in a lovely goddess of flowers and beauty, a goddess who, as the months passed, flourished and bloomed to become the Goddess Vesta…

She was the one to whom the vestals, the only nuns that ancient Rome ever had in her old days of love and splendor, kept the fire burning for, the fire, Ermes, the link of love that unites heaven and earth. The head of the Vestals was so powerful in Rome that she only could stroll in the Eternal City, lying on a cart. Just like the emperor, who was the Pontifex Maximus. He who builds bridges with the Gods beyond. The Pontifex Maximus and the mother Vestal together followed the rituals, being one and all, together, the great way that lead to the divine. And Vesta gave her lovely name to the Italian noun for summer: Estate. Spring is now knocking on the door, young Vesta (in the flowery dress of Libera), will soon become Vesta, the lady of the golden wheat, smiling to the sun, in the deep blue skies of a new summer…

A taste of paradise and beyond

If coming to Rome, do not, oh please, run around in a crowd, skipping from the Colosseum to the Vatican Museums in pure unconsciousness, taking pictures and selfies of yourself before the Vittoriano. Do not be prey of fret, that kills thruth and shuts your eyes to beauty and to the uncountable symbols that tell the real story, hidden and sacred, which can be told and understood in simplicity and wonder, with few words in the life of the eternal river. When in Rome, plan to see, of course, the Colosseum and the Vatican museum but find the secret thread that will lead you to understand what lies beyond, what can be seen as a revelation of the past as true and as alive as your everyday life back home. In the living symbols of our forefathers, that are here and there in churches and monuments, you will find, if guided, the answers to your quest...
So, for instance, why not linger in the Aventine hill, the hill of Remo, the twin that was killed by his Brother Romulus, the first king of the Eternal city.? Do you know, why, the Aventine is called Aventine? Birds is the answer (avis meaning bird in latin) From the Aventine hill, the roman augures used to watch the flight of birds, which gave answers to their prayers. On this hill, the twins decided where to build Rome. And Rome itself, bearing such a sacred name, is a mistery unfolded which I will keep to myself and give as a gift to those who might want to come with me on the Aventine Hill to discover the secluded garden of Sant'Alessio. A taste of paradise and beyond...

On sundays in Rome

bennibag flowers and owls

Churches are about everywhere in Rome;  and even more, as many as the stars up above, in the center where I happen to live, being the privilege of my life. So, on sundays, as you might understand, I have more than one choice to pick a mass in time and place. I can either go to Santa Maria ai Monti, that is my parish church and listen to Don Francesco or, why not, choose the franciscan church of the Saints Quirico and Giulitta, child and mother, killed as martyrs, during the persecutions of Diocletian. In which case Padre Antonio will be behind the altar, celebrating the eternal sacrifice of our Lord. But, but, but, I have many other chances, believe me, I have at least once been in all and every church  in the surroundings. I know all they have inside, mosaiques and pictures and the way the Fathers tell the story. At eleven o'clock, on sundays, for instance, I might decide to listen to a mass in latin in Santa Maria Maggiore. Oh the glory of the gregorian chanting! My soul is lifted to heaven as the priests sing as angels migh sing...

In any case, one way or the other, I am sure to meet, at the bottom of the stairs, a "signor Marini", one who is more than Roman, meaning an ancient Roman citizen. He seems to sprang out of history, somwhere from the troops of Caesar, one of the tenth legion maybe. And when he speals the Roman of real Romans it is a pure caress to my soul. His low voice comes straight from mystery itself. And every and each time he performs for me one of the sonnets of Gioacchino Belli, one out of the hundreds, one that is perfect for the day and for us two. And then I laugh and then he laughsback and we jolly well laugh together and then, in peace and quiet, we are both off to mass... 

On the Celio hill

This is me in my eternal search

There are places in Rome that are lost in time and space, as if in touch with a mysterious thruth beyond; one is simply walking in between cars and traffic, maybe eating a slice of pizza, all in one with our crazy modern horizons, when all of a sudden, the Middle Ages seem to be back, with all their majestic struggle to reach eternity and God in heaven. A silence that is unreal spreads from the skies and eveything seems still and perfect, in the sublime search for holiness. 
All of a sudden, meaning it, the world is back to its premieval cosmos, lost and faraway all the turmoil of the City. This happens, for instance, to people, like me, that strolling  around the beauties of the Celio (one of the Seven Hills), reach, all of a sudden, a wondrous church called "Santi Quattro Coronati". It is entitled to four martys - that is to say witnesses - who, being marble sculptors refused to carve pagan idols for Diocletian. Thus, they were sentenced to death. To be forever remembered in the slumber of this magnificent church, as holy and perfect as if built in paradise...
You might want to peep at the beautiful Oratory of San Silvestro, asking for the key to the nun kept in claustration that sits, silent and still as a statue carved by the martyrs, behind a grate, or maybe just walk into the church itself to see, up high, the crown of saints and consecrated, that seem, dancing in a golden sky, to look at us, poor people downstairs, waiting, one day, to be up there in glory. One can just sit and stare at all that beauty or, why not, play the game of recognizing saints: each one  is painted together with his symbols. Let me end here and let me keep my score for myself, in glory up above.

In the Ara Coeli

Like Saint Francis in this wonderful El Greco (Dublin)

When walking to my library (the Rispoli on Via della Gatta),  coming down from the Monti area (where I belong) I must cross Piazza Venezia, right beside the green lawn, on a slice of pavement, where tourists of all kinds stand, shoulders to the Vittoriano, taking pictures (and selfies) of the big white “wedding cake” (as the Romans called the gigantic building that the piedmontese Savoy built when they conquered the City of the Pope)  which dominates the large Via Lata (now Corso), as a big memento of the shift of power that happened in those lost faraway days… King Victor Emanuel the II, on his majestic horse, martial as Marcus Aurelius on the Campidoglio, seems ready to stride along the Eternal City, prey, conquered and humiliated. This is the deep reason why, I think, Romans do not like that huge marble monument, beloved by the tourists who might think the Vittoriano an old temple coming straight from Augustus times…

No, the Romans do not like the Vittoriano, calling it the wedding cake or the typewriter. And, please, if you have time, walk around it (note how it gives its strong shoulders to the Campidoglio) towards the magnificent paleochristian church of the Ara Coeli, the altar of the skyes. Up there, on top of the ripid staircase that leads us to the entrance of the church that is (and has always been) kept by the holy Franciscans (being Francis a second Christ on earth). And there, in holiness, enter the Church as if in the womb of Mary. Sharpen your eyes and look for the chapel where the holy Bambino is kept. It is not the original one (the one, I mean, carved by a Franciscan monk from an olive tree of the Holy land, which was stolen years ago), but, in its ieratic beauty this new little bambino, in gold and pearls, is as beautiful as the original; please, in focus and concentration, listen to his silent words: one must be a child again to enter the world of the skyes, in the Ara Coeli.

On the slopes of the Campidoglio

Roman spiritual walks with Benedetta. Get in touch: bennidv@alice.it

On the slopes of the Campidoglio, where the glorious temple of Jove used to stand in all its might and beauty, one can still find, walking on the winding drives of the Via del Monte Caprino, the ancient flare of the holy Lupercal where the twins were nourished  by the she wolf (Acca Larentia). Down below,  on the busy Via Petroselli, the furious turmoil of the never ending flow of cars coming and going in the nonsense of everyday life. Up there, the cosmos of beauty and perfection, in the sweet chanting of birds, while the wind, graciously, rustles branches and leaves, and one might catch a glimpse of the ancient nimphs and satyrs that used to live here in days forgotten by the crowds. In the glow of autumn, the sacred mother earth seems ready for her annual sleep to come to life again in spring, full of colors in never ending glory...

I was there, yesterday, and all alone, in the sweet company of birds and groves, cleaning up the gardens from modern litter, and bottles and packets of cigarettes and all the trash of these unholy days. I was cleaning up, I say, and all of a sudden I was not alone any more. I felt, and saw, with my third eye wide open, the ancient luperci priests running, dressed as wolves, and beating up, with goat skins, young women in order to make them conceive. No doctors could have been more effective than those luperci waking up, in nature, sleeping wombs… The vision finished, back to work, hands in green gloves. All of a sudden, a man springs out from nowhere: “Please, can I throw away my bottle?”. Ok, I answered and before I could say more, the bottle popped inside and he gone.