Last Friday I took my Aunty Sheila to L’Arche for Spiritual Soup. Spiritual Soup is a gathering that takes place once a month at one of three L’Arche Houses in Sydney. Core members, assistants, coordinators, family and friends come together to share a simple dinner of soup and bread before adjoining to a quiet place in the house to celebrate the community’s solidarity through prayer, song and educational activities that core members are able to participate in. Continue reading A Visit to L’Arche
Category Archives: Belonging
National diary archives, Italy
It was a cold and drizzly day when we visited Pieve Santo Stefano, a town some 15 kms north of Anghiari, near the source of the Tiber, which runs right through the middle of the town. Pieve is close to the birthplaces of both Michelangelo and Piero della Francesca. It was almost completely destroyed by the retreating German army during the second world war, and the non-descript postwar buildings contributed to a bleakness about the day of our visit. By contrast, what awaited us was yet another experience of the gracious hospitality we had been shown while staying in this part of Tuscany. Continue reading National diary archives, Italy
Doorways
The front step of the apartment where we are staying has a hollow on the right hand side. It is the door on this side that always opens. People have been treading on that step since the 16th century; their footsteps have worn a smooth groove in the stone. Continue reading Doorways
Anghiari hospitality
I continue to be amazed by the hospitality of the people here in Anghiari. Last night we experienced this hospitality yet again. Continue reading Anghiari hospitality
La festa di porco
On Christmas Eve the butcher (snr) was quite insistent that we come along to an event that was to be held on the 27th. From mid-afternoon, he and his son would be butchering a whole pig in a piazza just down from their shop, and there would be a party. This was clearly a major event that we were not to miss. We made our plans for the following days around it.
Caffé Garibaldi
The bar is ubiquitous in Italy. Like the piazza, it is a space where people pause and meet. Here, in Anghiari, my favourite bar is the Caffé Garibaldi, located in the main piazza, where, not surprisingly, there is a statue of the man himself. 
There are three other bars within less than a minute’s walk from this one, all of which have a constant stream of people dropping in as they go about their daily activities. Continue reading Caffé Garibaldi
Learning Italian
For the past few months, I have been having Italian lessons with a wonderful teacher who has insisted that I just speak – ‘avanti, avanti’ – without thinking about making perfect sentences, without worrying about making mistakes. ‘Keep it simple’, my teacher says, ‘listen’, and ‘ask questions’. This is the way to make contact. If you are thinking about grammar and how to construct your next sentence, you’re likely to lose contact. Continue reading Learning Italian
Market Day
It is Wednesday, centuries-old market day in Anghiari. The main (medieval) piazza, which is referred to as piazza mercatale, has been filling with stalls since before 6 – we have heard the busier than usual early traffic coming down Corso Matteotti this morning. The market spills over this main (renaissance) road, through a loggia, into another more recent, 18th century, piazza that becomes Viale Antonio Gramsci. There’s a mix of stalls – clothes, cheeses and salumi, the porchetta van, and fruit and vegetables. I recognise the same people, located in the same places, from previous stays here. We are drawn, down the street, to the sense of life in this weekly ritual. Continue reading Market Day
Anghiari, December 2015
Yesterday I arrived in Anghiari, a mediaeval town in eastern Tuscany to which I have been returning over the past 12 or so years. It is early morning and the bells are ringing around the town, one set after another.
Continue reading Anghiari, December 2015
A Photo in a Wallet
When my father-in-law died, after many years of sickness and many months in hospital, his wallet was in the drawer of the bedside cabinet. And in this wallet was a photo of his two daughters. Aged around 5 and 3, their hair in ribbons and pigtails, Anita and Ina are sitting side by side on a bench in a Sydney park, their feet unable to reach the ground. Continue reading A Photo in a Wallet