The she-wolf needs to feel the heat of the sun on her skin, to see how it gets tanned, to feel the scratches among the brambles of her path, to smell the odour that changes, to observe the wrinkles forming nearby the eyes.
She wants to submerge her head under the water of the Ocean and let outside her thoughts and the image of herself already defined, swimming as a fish, just with the fishes, seaweeds and coral barrier.
She must come back sometimes. She must go back to Nature, go back up the river to its estuary, she must climb the rocks with her bare feet. She is barefoot.
She is barefoot because she doesn’t need shoes, she refused the cultural barriers, the comfortable pre-concepts, the borders among nations.
Finally she got free from the white and black binomial and she started to walk on the infinite shades of grey, letting her need to be right, to know, to be coherent go. She finds similarities beyond the colour of the people passports, because she feels only their deep emotions.
The woman who runs with wolves is the one who travels alone: she needs to focus; to go back to the hill, by night, in order to watch the sky, to speak with the moon, to listen to the earth and let herself being welcomed. She lies her back on the turf and understands that everything is alright, everything is going to be alright.
Sometimes she starts her walk just with some hot bread, a notebook, a red wine bottle, a candle.
She needs to be by herself to be back among the others; to be there for the others when they need her, she needs to empty herself letting roll, down the hill, the thoughts, old resentments, pains of the past.
Why do I travel alone? Because it’s the best way to take care of myself, because I don’t need company in order to leave, but, sometimes, I happen to want it: the big freedom of being well by oneself is that travelling with someone becomes a choice and not a need.
For me it’s very important to be able to choose: some places are a private matter.
Liguria is a private matter, for example. Puglia, this summer was a path covered in white rocks and olive trees shared with an affine soul. Malta will be the long awaited travel with my sister. Afterward I know that I’ll be back travelling alone with my backpack. It depends on the moment and the destination. I travel alone even because I’m not the half orange of anyone, but a whole orange. Every time I realize it, more and more, in an empirical and funny way. I like learning how to be enough for myself, choosing how much time dedicate to an exhibition, to a church or to a concert in the street.
I love improvising, turning right instead than left without being able to explain it to myself. I love developing my sense of direction, discovering myself sociable, giving myself some isolation spaces. I need to fill my eyes with beauty.
The beauty of not compromising. The beauty of the white sand. Of the cliffs that slam against the sea. Of the red earth. The beauty of my happy image reflected on a bus rear-vision mirror. Sometimes I need it. Climbing a mountain by night and staying alone with the moon. I like squares, parties, dinners, but I need the mountain.
That’s it, travelling alone is my mountain, by night, under the moon.
Freely inspired by the Master Clarissa Pinkola Estes “Women who run with wolves”.