#31 The passing seasons

mortality in Sicily

Hello Friend,

This week in Sicily has been a strange one for me. As usual, with the beginning of Spring on the island, the weather has been fluctuating, and we were plunged back into Winter. The fluctuation has resulted in some strange alterations in my mood and everyone's energy.

I've had so many restless nights and strange dreams of long-dead ancestors who have come to visit during the night—feelings of restlessness, anxiety and all-consuming procrastination during the day.

I even went to the doctor this week, as I suspect my iron levels have decreased since I am often anemic. So as I begrudgingly fry myself up some iron-rich liver (which I hate), I am trying to take better care of myself and use food as medicine.

It is a time of transition, where things aren't either one thing or the other but rather a strange in-between.

There is so much preparation going on; people are exercising to get back their beach bodies in a few months, students are preparing for the end-of-school exams, and the summer promises to be a good and long one as everyone plans their vacations.

After the resurrection of Christ, we've been hearing the stories of doubting St Thomas, who didn't believe that Jesus had come back from the dead, only to have his hands touch the holes in his hand and thrust them through the wounded side of his Messiah.

I feel like St Thomas, so often, filled with doubts, so many questions about what to do next, where to go, even what to write.

As the seasons die and resurrect themselves, it feels strange not to feel the heat of the Spring. I always come alive in the sunshine. Yet, there still hasn't been enough to soak up.

I was saddened to see the suffering of a local mother who has been gradually saying goodbye to her son. I see the lady going to church every day, last weekend she was crying and being comforted by others. Then during the week, I heard her 45-year-old son had lost his struggle with cancer.

I never knew her son, I only saw him occasionally walk by on the street, yet he seemed to be a solid link in the chain of the local Sicilian community. It was remarkable to see how mother and son had been taken care of by their friends, relatives and acquaintances. He was loved and missed. At the same time, his mother will be taken care of by those around her.

A. was just a simple guy, he played in the local band, drank beer at the bar, smoked a packet of cigarettes a day, and didn't particularly do much in his life, yet he was regarded as a 'bravo ragazzo.' And so the tributes to him online were sincere. He had a big funeral. The Comune paid tribute to him on their website.

It's strange how little it takes for Sicilians to sanctify someone. It reminds me of how often Sicilians forget about the inevitability of death; they think they will live forever. And when someone does, they immediately make them a Saint. Even the most horrible or insignificant people are lifted up after their deaths. It's fascinating to see.

Even A. , a simple bravo ragazzo, has became a beloved son of his paese.

The pandemic has marked a definate erosion in the local communities of Sicily. Many small Sicilian villages are experiencing a kind of death. So many more people are moving away.

After three years of people locking themselves inside, the habit of going out in the piazza is slowly diminishing. During the day, you might see the usual group of male pensioners drinking coffee or playing cards in front of the bar.

The once thriving night-time piazza, today is deserted, completely dead. It makes me wonder how much longer these little paese can resist.

Since coming to Sicily, I've become more acquainted with death. In Sicily, mortality isn't hidden in funeral homes or polite obituaries printed in newspapers.

The end of life is part of every day, and the rites associated with mortality become tinged with superstition and religion. The ceremony of death in Sicily makes transience almost mundane.

Bereavement notices aren't published in small neat columns in the births and death section of the daily newspaper. Instead, they are printed on large posters with the deceased's name in bold print at the centre. They are decorated appropriately with various religious images, from the Virgin Mary and the crucified Jesus Christ to Saint Padre Pio.

The posters are on notice boards, billboards, light poles, or walls beside other public notices and advertisements for cinemas and kitchen appliances. The news of deaths and funerals is circulated like any other mundane advertisement or community announcements.

Mortality has the same importance as anything else in the rumour mill. The biggest news on the local grapevine is who has died, followed by funeral service details.

Elderly women meet one another on their way to and from the supermarket, repeating the same news until it is dispersed into the ether as efficiently as any radio station.

Funerals are do-it-yourself at-home affairs in small towns full of ancient traditions and superstitions. If a person dies in a hospital or away from home, they are returned to their house.

A room is usually cleared and prepared for the viewing of the deceased. Once at home, friends and family clean and dress the corpse, and the undertaker arrives later to place the body in the coffin.

The casket is put on a stand, surrounded by candle-shaped lights. Often a religious icon is placed at the head of the coffin. The scene is completed with rosary beads in the deceased's hands and a transparent veil over the open casket.

After the corpse has been prepared, the local priest gives a special blessing. He also provides confession to the family to participate in the Eucharist during the religious service, and he confirms the details of the solemnities.

Religious rites and burials are usually held twenty-four hours after death. The posters announcing a bereavement have already been distributed, so people arrive immediately to pay their respects.

The family holds a vigil beside the usually opened casket (unless the departed has died in hospital, after which it is sealed closed, according to the health regulations). The house of the departed is open all night to receive visitors. And to honour an old superstition that says the dead soul should not remain trapped in this world. Everything is left ajar until the corpse leaves, so the soul is free to go and take all the bad luck associated with fatality.

Traditionally, the family living in the house where the coffin was held doesn't do any form of housework for about ten days, which is considered bad luck. Friends and family supply cooked food, so daily life stops.

People who go into mourning wear all black, without any jewellery. Widows, especially older people, usually wear black for the rest of their lives. Adult children of the deceased typically wear black for one year as a sign of respect, but this has become a personal choice rather than a duty.

When the burial hour arrives, the undertakers move the coffin out of the house and transport it to the church. Family and mourners follow behind on foot if the church is nearby. As the hearse moves off, a procession forms behind as people from the local community join the family to celebrate the funeral mass in the church.

The service is usually short. The priest is the only one who speaks and gives a special blessing to the family and the deceased. After the ceremony, the coffin is taken to the cemetery. If it is nearby, people walk. The priest says a few words, and people say goodbye to the deceased by kissing their hands and touching the casket.

Outside the entrance to the graveyard, the family receives the condolences of those who have attended the funeral. A week after the burial, a religious service is held in memory of the deceased, another a month later, and after one year.

Then according to the wishes of the family, an annual memorial mass can be held to commemorate the anniversary of the person's death. Sepulture is a well-rehearsed ritual performed without thought and despite emotion.

The burial business is precise and brisk, the solemnities occurring only a day after the death one can almost be forgiven for thinking Sicilians are indifferent to the rituals. But the routine helps them not be courageous but rather to share the burden with the broader community; they experience their mortality collectively.

A death in a small town is a loss for a family and the entire population. The dread of passing away is always with them. Still, the anxiety is relieved by the ceremonies performed with a precise regularity as an expression of collective grief.

Sicilian funerals become a manifestation of the collective community experience.

I hate to be long-winded, so I will stop here for now.

I'll keep trying to write something worthwhile here every week, perhaps more often if I get in some karmic writing zone.

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Speak again soon.

With love and light from RDB

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