The Kingdom of Two Sicilies
a story about shedding old narratives somewhere between Sicily and Abruzzo
I can’t remember exactly when, but at some point I started noticing tiny whispers pulling my attention towards the island of Sicily. Little details and stories that really start to characterize parts of Abruzzo had these links to Sicily that seemed to beg — follow me, amuninni.
This spring I got to follow these details for the first time straight to the source. My first night on the island I met a woman who lives in the shadow of Monte Pellegrino and she was the first person to really ask me, why Sicily?
I was without words. I sincerely had not put much thought into this move. I knew the practical reason I temporarily packed up my life in Abruzzo for the next seven months — to be in a garden.
I did not however know how to respond to her question because I knew that is not the answer she was seeking. The thought that bubbled up from deep inside me was something along these lines - it feels like something bigger than me called me to this place.
I hated Palermo at first. I remember selfishly telling Francesca I could do without it as we drove off to the hinterlands of Sicily. Despite the beauty I saw surrounding me, the island felt dangerous, chaotic, unpredictable and harsh. I suddenly couldn’t understand the words people were saying to me. It was completely disorienting.
I would come to understand and accept that I had come to the island wounded. I needed to tend to my wounds and also lay to rest this narrative of victimhood that I was operating within. In the garden, each day was a spiritual challenge. I was alone with my thoughts, plants, a few snakes and bird songs. I felt raw. For the first time I was looking at my life from a detached point of view, with nothing really substantial to grasp.
I realized that I wanted to part ways with certain coping mechanisms that no longer served me – this awakening seemed to happen the same day that a dear friend, Chiara Leto, wrote about the story of Persephone.
It was a time in the garden when the asphodel's were in their final days of blooming and I would notice the daffodils, Narcissus papyraceus, gently perfuming the air.
The asphodel, Asphodelus albus, is said to be the torch that lights the way for Persephone’s journey up from the underworld. It is the first flower to bloom in spring on the island and its nectar swells honeycombs with a white, buttery honey. I vaguely knew the story of Persephone but I loved sitting with Chiara’s counter to the version I knew.
Essentially the most commonly circulated story of Persephone portrays her as a victim, taken by Hades against her will into the underworld. Instead, Chiara reminded me that there is a different version of the story - one that suddenly resonated with this new awareness of my desire to put down old narratives. Persephone had a desire to explore her shadow, the underworld, and so she ingested narcissus knowing the plant possessed the power to alter her consciousness. With an altered consciousness Persephone became intimately connected with hidden parts of herself.
They say that the entrance to the underworld is located in Enna, only one hour away from where I lived on the island. In a lot of ways my time spent in Sicily really felt like a journey into the underworld.
I noticed the ways in which I had manifestations of what one might call a mother wound and I found grace in recognizing this in others surrounding me. The mother wound plays out in the story of Persephone and Demeter. I think it is a common inheritance for many that is passed down through generations that live within patriarchal structures - disconnecting us from the divine feminine.
It is soothing to look towards all that generative energy that ripples out from the volcano Mount Etna and remember that with humility all beings are a source of divine power.
Coming back up from the underworld into the mountains of Abruzzo, I feel so much gratitude for what the island shared with me. I oscillated between the warmth of Mount Etna to the motherly embrace of the Majella. It was so special to tend to a garden in Sicily that in return cared for me as I confronted all these feelings.
During the final weeks of my residency, we walked through the gardens with Sarah Owens and saw that the hawthorn, Crataegus monogyna, limbs were heavy with fruit. Sarah reminded us that the fruit of the hawthorn offers medicine for the heart.
I had tried once to work with hawthorn and it didn’t resonate with me. In the same way that I felt a small pull towards Sicily, I now feel a small pull towards hawthorn.
Maybe I am ready to finally accept the medicine.
This will not be the last time I write about Sicily. I know the things I witnessed on the island will continue to permeate my work.
I take back what I said about Palermo, forgive me!
I love the city and I cannot wait until I get to walk the streets again. There remains still a list of things that leave me stirring - the story of sulphur being one of them.
Even my last name - LaRocca - seems to have more Sicilian roots than Abruzzese. When Sicilians hear my name they quickly point to the town of Roccapalumba and ask if I came to reconnect with my family there because LaRocca is a prominent last name in the town. It makes sense.
Abruzzo was a part of the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, and allegedly many aristocratic families in Sicily had land holdings in Abruzzo. This is where my family got the last name, LaRocca. My ancestors worked for the LaRocca family when last names became relevant and necessary in Italy - like many others without a last name they were just given the last name of the family responsible for them. Hi, feudalism!
To my knowledge my family has no real links to Sicily but I will see if I manage to make any real connections moving forward because at this point my line of thought is all speculative.
Pacentro itself has a collective history similar to Sicily - many different civilizations moved through the passage of the mountains. The Pacentro dialect is more in the language family of the Neapolitan dialect, but it feels Sicilian in the way that certain words and phrases nod towards the different groups of people that settled in town. I live in a palazzo that was built in the 1500s by a wealthy Spanish family that wanted a vacation home in the mountains.
A part of my home is built on the portion of town lovingly known as la rusacca, a word in dialect with its roots in French - rue. There was also a convent right below Pacentro where nuns tended to mulberry trees to make silk to send up to Milan. I have such a soft spot for the stories recounting the daily lives of nuns and monks, so it is no surprise that my favorite place in Palermo is Segreti dei Chiostro. I am forever chasing these stories because they were artisans working with bees, silk and sweets among other things.
Most Italians will tell you that their region is the reason something we perceive as “Italian” exists. I currently sit in this belief that Sicily is where all of these things come up and out to the mainland. Much of the story of Sicily seemed obscured from me and I think in some ways that is shared and intentional. There are many dark things that happened on the island and it is not common to acknowledge them with real weight or gravity.
There are also many beautiful things that percolate on the island - like the numerous islands off the coast. The islands feel as if they lend themselves to a deeper exploration of this underworld element, so that is where you will find me on future pilgrimages back to Sicily.
For now I am back in Pacentro, embracing winter in my studio while basking in the new light I harnessed this year. I earnestly glance at my future garden each morning and know that I will soon be able to explore in that space. Last night I went out to see a puppet show in Sulmona — as any 28 year old would do on a wild night out in November. My jaw was on the floor because I was sitting once again with this connection between Sicily and Abruzzo and this is where I will leave you for now.
If you’ve made it this far, thank you for bearing witness to my internal exploration and thank you to everyone that I met during my time in the garden - you were such an integral part to my process whether you knew this or not.
*I am in no way suggesting anyone should ingest daffodils, hawthorns, asphodels or any plant that I mention in this piece.