We Heal Together
Dear friend,
I’m on a bus en route to Turin airport where we’ll catch our flight home to London. The skies are stunning here after a sudden storm broke across the city following a day of gorgeous spring sunshine. The wind blew so strongly that seeds from the trees flew everywhere, and for a moment I thought it was snowing. So many of the cars in the city are covered in tiny dents that look like bullet holes, courtesy of a freak downpour of huge hailstones a few months back.
Who can deny or ignore climate change, or the pressing need for more inclusive economics and social structures?
We stayed overnight with a friend of Chiara’s, Orlando—a musician, songwriter, and actor. He directs a choir made up of people who have or are currently experiencing homelessness. They’re healing through coming together and sharing the power of their voices. Orlando told us how in the beginning he’d expected the project to run out of energy, the way it sometimes happens, but that’s not the case. Despite the vulnerability of some of the choir members, they show up week after week.
“Sometimes I arrive for rehearsals feeling worn out or weighed down with my own troubles—you know, the stuff we all carry,” Orlando said. “But I leave feeling light and full of energy.” He stretches his arms wide, as wide as his smile.
At the airport we queue for coffee, and a mum asks her young daughter to look after her brother for a moment while she pays for some food. The girl can’t be much more than six, maybe seven. Her brother is a toddler, with fair hair wearing a blue jumpsuit. We’re rummaging around for small change as the mum leans over the counter to tap her card, and then there’s an almighty smacking sound—the toddler’s cracked his head hard against a metal strip that marks a boundary on the terminal floor.
The mum is over in a shot, shocked—she rebukes her daughter while the boy exists in that place between the impact and the wail of pain. We watch for what feels like an eternity while the daughter stands helpless, eyes on her mum as she comforts the boy.
We avoid eye contact. It’s a moment that will pass into the girl’s subconscious. The staff bring ice in a plastic bag, and we order our coffee.
The mum recovers and hugs the girl, apologising to her.
She couldn’t help but fire the guilt at her daughter. It all happened so fast.
The apology too passes into the girl’s subconscious. How vulnerable and impressionable are we, us humans?
I remember my first therapist telling me something like: it takes us the first forty years or so of our lives to untangle our relationship with our parents—and the rest to work out who we are and how we want to live our lives.
I don’t know about the numbers, but it does seem to be taking all the time it needs. This becoming.
Working it out together.
Like those voices from the streets of Turin.
We heal together.
All of us.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey