There’s a tree I completely love.
It stands along my usual running route in Sicily, just before the last hill, the point which sends a good sign to my mind: “You’ve made it again!”. The tree sits at a good distance from the street, alone in the middle of two hay fields. I watched it grow, and it silently watched me grow, too. A relationship built without words, purely through presence.
I often told myself I should go closer, sit beneath it, and maybe take a couple of photographs.
The last time I ran, the tree was almost gone. A lightning strike during a huge storm hit it and opened it up in two. I felt crushed. I blamed myself for all the times I postponed, thinking: it’s a tree, it will be there tomorrow as well. I usually welcome change, but this felt like a pure loss.
I was looking for an anchor of stability in a constantly changing world.
And I failed at it.
A few weeks after the storm, I finally fulfilled an old desire to visit a small island, learning from my mistake that postponing is not always a great choice. The trip involved a five-hour drive and a 30-minute ferry ride, enough to keep me from going before, but this time, I crushed all sabotaging thoughts and went all in with it.
I like to arrive in new places at night.
The night gives you a unique image that will be completely different the next morning. The place shows its most hidden secrets and intimacy only to the few who are willing to see it. Once I arrived, I took an hour-long walk to release my legs.
The island smelled of life: sea, plants, secular trees, and flowers. It was the confirmation I needed that I had made the right choice.
Choosing that place was easy. Many photographers have crossed the island, and I remember as a kid seeing their work and fantasizing about how great it would be to live those experiences.
The island is famous for its ancient Tonnara and its rais, the chief, who has always represented the island's core values.
While explaining what I was doing with Project Home, everyone looked at me with tender eyes and said: “You should have come 20 years ago. The Tonnara closed, and the people you’re looking for are all dead.”
As it happened with the tree, I felt deluded again inside.
The reality is that small changes and new technologies, change our days imperceptibly, but they hold this exponential power to completely modify the reality we live in within a few years. I couldn’t stop thinking about how quickly things disappear, and how easy it is to believe we have infinite time.
That’s why it’s so important to document the time and places we live in. Our traditions and cultural heritage are there until they’re not.
Luckily there are still people who, with patience and love for the place, are telling stories to the ones who are on the lookout for them. Listening to them made me conscious of how a place can forge people’s souls.
Islanders live in this extreme symbiosis with the sea. It’s their home and the force they know better than anything else.
It’s here where I met Silvano. His short story is told in the video above, at the beginning of this email/post. (click play to see it)
I hope this inspires you to find meaning and a sense of belonging in the fleeting moments around you before they too become part of the past.
Until the next one,
Much love.
F
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