I Want My Children To Grow Up Barefoot Running Through The Woods. I Want Them To Know The Feeling Of

McGonagall always kinda had respect for these three as much as she didn’t show it majority of the time, I’m sure of it

What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath. (via thequotejournals)

https://twitter.com/northumbriana/status/846454474654781442

““My first religious experiences came to me both in wild places and in very human places, but perhaps the most poignant were where the two were intimately blended, at least in my perception. An example that I would share here is that of lying on a warm stone in rural Spanish sunshine, alone, my eyes closed, my soul infused with the scents of cistus and thyme, listening to the sound of goat bells above the tumbling rush of the river beside me, and I knew—with that subjective certainty which so thoroughly imbues such moments—that time did not exist: everything around me was the wholeness of all that had ever happened in that ancient valley. It was not crowded with humanity, but human culture was fully involved, scratching its living in the dusty hills, quietly but so very deeply rooted, and perpetually narrated by the stories and songs of those people generation after generation. Eight years old, for me it was an experience of feeling completely held, in peace and security—home—to the extent that I recognise my spiritual journey to have been in some measure a seeking to recreate that exceptional feeling.””

— Emma Restall Orr, in her essay Pagan Ecology: on our perception of nature, ancestry, and home, in the book The Wanton Green, Contemporary Pagan Writings on Place. I promised I would post these descriptions of childhood moments sometimes. Here’s one.

I just want to tell you a story. Will you listen?

You probably don’t know this woman: her name is Franca Viola. She was born in Alcamo, Sicily, in 1947, during a time where, see, things for women were deeply different. This is her when she was 17. 

She was 17 when, on the 26th of December, 1965, she was kidnapped by her former boyfriend, Filippo Melodia, the son of a local mobster, and a few of his friends: she had broken the engagement with him a couple of years prior, when she was 15 and he was 23, and he couldn’t accept it. He kept her segregated in a farmhouse for 8 days and raped her, before she was found and freed by the police.

At that time, the Italian law stood with her kidnapper and rapist, as it stated that if the rapist married his victim, then the crime was virtually erased, and, had the guilty part already been prosecuted and convicted, the trial and the sentence would cease. This kind of marriage was called “rehabilitating marriage,” as it was believed that the victim, and her family, had to fix the dishonour caused by the rape. 

Incredible, isn’t it? Not really. In an area where families still used to hang the sheet dirty with blood to their balcony after the first wedding night to prove the virginity of the woman to the entire town, the law and the public opinion still expected women to marry their abusers to mantain their honour. 

Franca refused to marry Melodia. Knowing that the entire town - and, later, the whole country - could turn its back at her, knowing that she was going to be mocked, frowned upon, and insulted, she denounced him. Her family, who, contrarily to many other families, stood with her and supported her choice, needed to be guarded at all times by a handful of policemen, having been threatened by Melodia and his family. Franca was assisted by a brilliant lawyer. The trial ended up being reported by Italy’s major newspapers, and Franca, the first woman - girl - to refuse rehabilitating marriage, quickly became an example of bravery for many, many other women.

In court, Melodia tried to turn the judge against her. He said she’d already hooked up with him when they were together. He tried to escape conviction.

He was convicted for kidnapping anyway, and justly. Eight years later, when he got out, he was shot dead by an unknown killer.

Despite earlier threats that she was dishonoured, and that she wasn’t going to find anyone willing to marry her, she married Giuseppe, a childhood friend, in 1968, who stated that he wasn’t afraid of any possible acts of revenge from Melodia. He allegedly said said, “I’d rather live ten years with you than a lifetime with another woman.”  About her dad, who supported her every step, Franca recently said, “My father Bernardo came [to get me] unshaven, with a week’s old beard: I could not shave if you were not there, he said. What do you want to do, Franca? I will not marry him. All right, you put your hand, I will put one hundred. This sentence, he said. I just want you to be happy, nothing else. He took me home and he did the great effort, not me. It was him who put up with those who no longer greeted him, his friends gone. The shame, the dishonour. His head up high. He wanted only what was good for me.”

When he heard about her wedding, even Pope Paul VI asked to meet her to congratulate her.

Her trial was the final push to erase the law about rehabilitating marriage and honour killings, which also allowed “mitigating circumstances” if the killer had acted upon jealousy or to restore his honour (for instance, if a husband walked in on his wife cheating on him, and killed both her and her lover). But that didn’t happen until 1981.

Rape was finally considered a “crime against the person,” instead of a crime “against the morals”, only in 1996. 

She still lives in Alcamo; she says that, sometimes, she still sees her kidnappers, and whilst she greets them, they lower her gaze in shame. Franca has never, not once, lowered her gaze, and that’s why she changed history. 

This is just a tiny post to remember how small acts of courage can change history and change the shape of a nation - and as a woman, an Italian, a Sicilian woman, I want to thank Franca for saying ‘no’ and - perhaps by chance - changing the history of Italy. 

Being a witch is aggressively meditating over your tea to make it make your throat feel better, furiously whispering a few odd words of an incantation while youre trying to go to sleep, spending hours looking in your spice rack for the herb you need, burning things, burning incense, burning your hand by accident Its filling things with positive energy and draining them of the negative, its being the person everyone comes to with their problems because somehow you always know how to fix it Its always smelling earthy and warm from essential oils and herbs, always carrying around rocks Its knowing in your heart that you can change things Its knowing that sometimes its better if you dont Its knowing that you are all you need sometimes, and belief is stronger than any potion Being a witch is not evil or bad or wrong, its soft and beautiful and pure.

Got an 8. :)

How well do you see color?

I’m cry I scored 60, I feel blind