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And at the festival of Madonna dell’Arco, grief was worn just as honestly and on the outside too. The ritual is long inside the church, all day communities from villages all around the Vesuvius line up with beautiful embroidered textiles and banners to come before the altar and bleeding portrait of the Madonna. They are called ‘fuenti’ the runners and some run barefoot from their homes to the church, some come on their knees. They come to offer their love to this bleeding Madonna asking her to take their pain away. Late in the day a woman came slowly on her knees towards the altar weeping, weeping. Even though she was small, her grief had a huge power and energy. I felt somehow that she had lost a child. The whole church watched as she came slowly, wailing to the front of the church. As she got nearer, this energy moved through the whole crowd like a snake and everyone began to sway slightly with her as if we were all being caught in a vortex of emotion, as if we were supporting her through our witnessing. Her wailing grew louder and louder, her movements wilder and more uncontrollable. Everyone became silent as her hysteria grew and tension filled the air. Suddenly a priest who had been looking from the side rushed over and yelled ‘no, no!’ And in that moment the crowd turned and hissed at him - no words - hissing like a snake, like an animal to stop him from breaking this spell. A grief spell that she was finally going to release, naturally, herself. A tearing, gripping and ferocious grief that had been living inside her for who knows how long and now… now she was ready to release it. To give it to the Mother. The people pushed the priest back and she stood now in front of the Madonna and went into a trance - somehow still standing and yet in between worlds. Finally she let out a high piercing shriek that echoed through the church and collapsed. She let go. But just like the other pilgrims she never hit the ground, there was no moment of physical discomfort. She was surrounded by the people of her village, people that knew her story and had walked this grief with her. They caught her in their arms and carried her quickly to rest outside. I was affected by so much - the ritual was not controlled by the priests - in fact, the Catholic church have been trying to stop this festival from even taking place in years. It is pagan, ancient and the people are in control. They know that their communities need to grieve and release, they need no priest between them and their Mother. I walked outside and the woman was already sitting up drinking water and talking. All around us was a carnival of music and people dancing the ancient healing dance of the Tarantella. The drinking and eating after the ritual would go on and on for days. I wanted to share this story with you today because it is still the healthiest and most natural and loving experience of healing grief that I have ever witnessed. This ancestral ritual honours grief in its mystery. It had no words, no answers, it was simply a temple in which to let go. Just like the times of our own bleeding and changes in our cycles like the strong initiation I’m experiencing now in menopause I don’t want to have to push down my emotions or cover them over. Catharsis. Release. The honest letting go of emotion and admitting that we are not perfect can create the space in our bodies to dance and celebrate life again.
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