I've always loved books. I love the way they smell. I love the way they feel in your hands. When I was growing up, my mother read fairy tales to me every evening. Stories like Hans Christian Andersen's The Wild Swans were childhood favorites. As a young woman, I had Heidi as my bedside companion. Recently, a most delightful book, The Legend of the Villa della Luna left me pondering the amazing ability of books to find us just when we need them most.

Life Soup

The Legend of the Villa della Luna (designed and illustrated by Jana Kolpen and Mary Tiegreen) fell into my hands after flashes from a violent childhood event began to haunt me as an adult. I was 12 years old when I witnessed my father in a drunken rage almost strangle my mother to death. When he let go of my mother's throat, she dropped to the floor. I wanted to rush to her, to cry, to comfort her. But my father hadn't finished. As he hit and kicked her, my 6-year-old brother squeezed my hand so tight I can still feel the impression of his fingers in my palm.

I rushed to the back porch, looked at the garden shovel, then the pickax. Grabbing the broom, I ran back inside, lifting it to swing. Suddenly, I realized how ineffectual that was going to be. I placed my brother at the top of the stairs, then ran down and dashed outside. I leapt the fence, ran the length of our neighbor's yard and interrupted the family seated at dinner. Out of breath and frantic, I managed to explain we needed help. After their intervention, I merely stored this event in my memory. I never talked about it, and I never understood its profound effect on my life.

Two years ago, the memory returned with a vengeance, tripped by a minor incident. One day, while I was visiting my brother and his wife, their daughter interrupted our conversation, and her mother yelled at her. I felt compelled to tell the mother I thought she wasn't being fair. An argument ensued in which I was told I was out of line. Shortly after this, flashes from my childhood history -- my father choking my mother -- began to spin across my mind for the first time since the event occurred. These snippets of horror colored my days in the darkest hues. I wasn't able to shift the pictures or the pain.

One night I prayed for healing -- and then I had a dream. In the dream an old woman was standing in a doorway of a mountain cottage. She told me to make soup for myself, and her instructions were specific. I was to use vegetables from under the earth. The next time I went shopping I purchased lots of root vegetables -- potatoes, yams, parsnips, onions and carrots. I cooked up a spectacular pot of soup, one that would make my mother proud and my Scottish ancestors sing.

Two days later, in a bookstore, I literally tripped over a pile of remaindered books that had been stacked on the floor with a five-dollar tag. A book with a soft purple cover embossed with a large red rose looked up at me. I picked it up and opened it to a recipe that folded out from a deep green page: "The Minestrone of Memories and Reflections -- for those who need to revisit their past in order to move on." Here was a soup recipe like the one in my dream. I reached into my purse for the five dollars, deciding to spend my weekend reading and cooking.

Unexpected Vitality

The Legend of the Villa della Luna is a gentle story of a woman who is "withered and wounded". On holiday in France she is befriended by a kindred soul who invites her to go to Italy. Reluctant at first to go on this journey, Mademoiselle J. heads for the station, then pauses. She stands silently for a moment and, reaching into her pocket, pulls out an ivory- colored envelope. Inside is a train ticket and a note from her friend saying, "Your journey can end only when that door is opened."

Upon arrival at a beautiful villa in Italy, Mademoiselle J. meets remarkable characters who are expecting her. Among these are the kind man who lives at the lighthouse; he is alone, for he has buried his passion under his grief. In the kind man, I found myself. The violence in my childhood had violated my relationship with my own passion. Yes, I had my father's spontaneous, creative streak along with his temper. But as a 12-year-old, I began to keep my passionate side in check.

Reading The Legend of the Villa della Luna, I came to the first recipe and began to cook the "Paste Vivante -- for those who are afraid of the passion of life." As I stirred the sauce, I pondered my past. The more I stirred, the more I realized that the way I've channeled my spontaneity and passion is completely different from the way my father expressed his -- not in temper but in kindness. I began to see that I could trust my passion for it's own creative expression.

At the villa, Mademoiselle J. also meets Diana La Verde: "Signora La Vecchia... chose always to wear green so as not to offend her gardens... filled with rare flowers, abundant vegetables and fruits." One of the saddest effects of the violence I witnessed as a child was the distance it placed between me and my mother. I was angry at her for not standing up for herself. I became afraid to love her in case I lost her. But my mother had a beautiful garden where we spent hours together growing tomatoes, vegetables and strawberries. Still, throughout my teen years I never allowed the love in this experience to heal the pain of my past.

Reading about Signora La Vecchia, I turned to the recipe for "Foccacia of Forgiveness -- bread for those who need to let go." Kneading the dough and gathering the fresh rosemary from my own garden, I reflected on the many gifts my mother had given me: her connectedness to the earth and to the rhythms of the world around her; her consistency; her love of neighbors and friends, who would come to her kitchen for bottomless cups of tea; and her singing, which seemed to carry her across her pain. Forgiving my mother for her passivity in the face of my father's violence has been a difficult task. Focusing on the gifts she brought, and still brings, into my life has opened my heart to her and rendered forgiveness easier.

Synchronicity

The healing discovery of The Legend of the Villa della Luna came full circle after my preparing and eating my fabulous Italian meal. I cleaned the kitchen, then sat down and opened the back cover of the book, reading the final credits: "Special thanks go to Gianni and Rene Biaggi, and Christina Biaggi for their generosity in sharing the splendor and history of their family home in Liguria." My soul was warmed as I remembered: Several years ago, while attending an Archaeo-mythology conference in Greece, I had been invited on a trip to the province of Liguria, Italy, along with a small group of other women. I longed to go, but events transpired that prevented me from making the journey. I had accepted the inevitable with other life losses and labeled the hope for such a journey "unfulfilled". My minestrone memories brought it all back: we were to stay at the Biaggi family home.

I saw in this synchronicity a promise. Assured that although I had put my past pain and future plans into the "too hard" basket, God had not. The following weekend, I returned to my stove to cook "The Risotto of Welcomes -- to feel at ease in the presence of beginnings."