What a Small Small World it Is! Also, a Print Version of My Novel is Coming Soon

My neighbor Lana Israel is leaving Massachusetts, moving back to Rhode Island to live near family, so a few friends and I took her out to lunch today.

She asked if I was working on a novel, so I told her about my new book, Finding Filomena, which tells the story of my great great grandmother, Filomena Scrivano, who way back in 1870 in southern Italy, had a baby — my great grandfather — out of wedlock (oh what an awful word.) The shame that resulted lived on for a long long time.

One thing led to another at lunch, and suddenly Lana said, “I know David Kertzer.” I was flabbergasted. What are the odds that she would know the historian at Brown University who wrote a definitive book: Sacrificed for Honor: Italian Infant Abandonment and the Politics of Reproductive Control. It’s an amazing book that explores the horrific facts surrounding my great great grandmother’s situation as an unwed mother. Lana’s family attends the same synagogue in Providence, Rhode Island, that Kertzer does. Lana’s husband, Richard J. Israel, served as Attorney General of Rhode Island from 1971 to 1975. He passed away in 2022.

A little-known fact — and one that Kertzer writes about in great detail — is that for centuries in Italy (and in all other Catholic countries in Europe) illegitimate babies were routinely taken away from their mothers and housed in “ospizios,” foundling homes where the poor infants usually perished because hired wet nurses readily transmitted disease from one baby to another. David Kertzer’s compelling historical account of this situation gave me a much-needed perspective on my great great grandmother’s scary dilemma back in the 19th century.

According to Kertzer, “even in the first years of the twentieth century…only 62 percent of Italy’s foundlings lived to their first birthday.”

Something else Kertzer reveals: women were policed! That is, unmarried women who got pregnant were often turned into authorities by priests, doctors, midwifes or even neighbors. Women were imprisoned in order to prevent them from seeking abortions.

In other words, women in Italy in the old days faced a predicament not entirely unlike that of too many women today. According to Sacrificed for Honor, published in 1993, hundreds of thousands of babies died throughout Europe because of this monstrous practice by the Catholic Church (which apparently started in Italy and was most extreme there.)

In 1870, in the southern region of Calabria, Italy, where my great great grandmother delivered her son (who was given the rather silly name of Pasquale Orzo), Kertzer reports that a horrifying 93 percent of the illegitimate babies died, making it an absolute “miraculo” that my great grandfather survived.

It was in part because I wanted to explain how this miracle came to pass that I decided to write Finding Filomena, the novel about my great great grandmother.

Until now, I haven’t publicly thanked Dr. Kertzer for his extraordinary book. He has written numerous other fine books, too, including several histories of the Vatican and the Popes. Kertzer still teaches at Brown University, where he is Paul Dupee Jr. University Professor of Social Science, Professor of Anthropology, and Professor of Italian Studies. I was a student in the 1970s; I graduated from Brown a few years after Kertzer did.

Meanwhile, my novel is earning praise even from some non-family members, which comes as a welcome surprise to me.

And now, it looks like there will be a print version of the book, and that makes me very excited. If you’re interested in a copy of the print edition, please email me at claudiajricci@gmail.com.

Finding Filomena is now available as an ebook on on Amazon.com and also, on Kobo.com.

An old black and white photo of a young woman, buried in a family trunk. Whispers over the years among my grandmother and her five sisters.

For as long as I can remember, there was a dark secret in my father's family. But once my grandmother and all her sisters had passed, the secret was out: my great grandfather, Pasquale Orzo, was born out of wedlock in 1870 to a poor young woman named Filomena Scrivano, who lived in the southern province of Calabria in a small seaside town called Paola.

In English, the name Scrivano means "scribe," but in this novel, I take on the job of scribe for my ancestor's love story, one that was “channeled” through me after I visited the tiny seaside town of Paola and met dear Great Great Grandma — Bis Bis Nonna, in Italian — in an old seaside cafe in 2023.

Finding Filomena, the book that resulted, is now available as an ebook on Amazon.com and Kobo.com. Not only does the book identify the man Filomena fell in love with, the man who is responsible for producing the enormous Orzo clan – one which today numbers hundreds of descendants from Connecticut to California – the novel also solves perhaps an even bigger mystery:

A little-known, and thoroughly appalling, fact is that for centuries in Italy (and in all other Catholic countries in Europe) illegitimate babies were routinely taken away from their mothers and housed in “ospizios,” horrible foundling homes where the babies usually perished before the age of one, principally because hired wet nurses transmitted disease from infant to another.

According to a well-researched book called Sacrificed for Honor, by Brown University historian David Kertzer, hundreds of thousands of babies died because of this monstrous practice. In 1870, in the region of Calabria where Pasquale Orzo was born, a horrifying 93 percent of the illegitimate babies died, according to Kertzer, leaving us asking the question: how did the "miraculo" (miracle) happen? How is it that our illegitimate ancestor Pasquale Orzo managed to survive?

For years and years, my family members have traded countless emails and conversations, always asking the same question: who was Pasquale’s father? Some speculated that Filomena’s lover was a nobleman from the north of Italy. Others suggested he was a rich businessman. Or a member of the Swiss Guard, the elite military assigned to the Pope.

In writing my novel, it was my intention to restore dignity to Filomena Scrivano’s reputation. I also wanted to try to erase the endless shame that was handed down from Pasquale Orzo to my grandmother, Albina Orzo Ricci, and her five Orzo sisters, as well as to their offspring.

What I didn’t realize until Filomena began to come alive as a character for me, is that this book is a dramatic coming-of-age story for a young woman who was born into a situation with absolutely no horizons, no opportunity, no possibility of escape. When she meets the charming Giovanni Masiero, her world opens up. Filomena realizes not only the possibility of love, but she is also exposed to Giovanni’s cultured world, where she finds herself as an artist (a writer, like her name suggests) and as a strong, independent woman. Filomena finds the inner resources to survive and ultimately, to transcend the tragedy of her circumstances. At the end of the book, Filomena and her best friend Nunzi actually come up with a marvelous way to help other young women who become pregnant and are in danger of having their babies taken away.

PICTURED ABOVE: Pasquale Orzo and his wife, Caterina, with six of his ten children. My grandmother, Albina, is standing to the right of her mother.

Some readers have asked how I came to write this story. To be absolutely honest, I really didn’t do the choosing. Like so much of the best fiction, the story was delivered to me by mysterious means. Moreover, as I will reveal in later posts, I received ample help in writing the book from my dear parents, Ric and Dena Ricci, who passed away before I wrote the book. I know, I know, how weird, right? But trust me, I have kept careful notes on the help they delivered.

Of course I received help from living relatives as well. First and foremost, I owe so much to my first cousin, Donna Ricci (her father and mine were brothers), who has done an enormous amount of important genealogical research on the Orzo family over the years. Indeed, it was Donna who inherited that trunk from our grandmother Albina Orzo Ricci’s younger sister, Lisette Orzo DiPinto. It was Donna who found the only photo that we have of Filomena Scrivano, the one that graces the book’s cover. On the back of the photo was a date, 23 Ottobre 1919,

and just a couple of lines of script: Filomena Scrivano Pera was presenting the photo “al mio caro figlio Pasquale,” to her dear son Pasquale. Beneath Filomena’s handwriting, my grandmother Albina identified Filomena Scrivano as her “Paternal grandmother.” In other words, Filomena is my grandmother’s grandmother.

Perhaps the biggest surprise for me in writing this book is that it ended up helping me tap into a whole new identity. As I explain in the book, growing up, I never felt much pride in my Italian-American heritage. But in the course of writing this book, and traveling to southern Italy to research it, I discovered not only that I love Italy (which was always true), but also that I love being Italian, I love hearing and learning and speaking the language and I love learning the country’s unusual history.

In other words, I have become passionate about being Italian American!

I have lots more I can say about the book. For now, though, I have my feet up and I am enjoying the fact that I “found” Filomena. As I say at the end of the book, “I’m done for now, but should our dear Great Great Grandma Filomena have more to tell me, I will be ready, and eagerly waiting to hear what she has to say.”

Thank You Mom and Dad, for Helping Me Write "Finding Filomena!"

I wasn't going to post this chapter. I kept telling myself it's just too kooky and "out there" and people might doubt my sanity :) But now that Filomena Scrivano, my great great grandmother,

has finished telling me, chapter by chapter, her very sad love story, and the ebook is out, I figure it's time to thank my parents -- who routinely were contacting me via my iPhone -- for helping me to write this book. Oh, I almost forgot to say, both of my parents passed away before I started writing the book.

How It All Began

I can't recall exactly when it started, but the first time I actually recorded their contact was in October, 2023, when Rich and I were travelling in southern Italy, in large part to research my great great grandmother Filomena's life. It was the 27th of October, 2023, to be exact, and we were in Lecce,

a magnificent old city in the region of Puglia (the heel of the Italian boot.) Rich had just been diagnosed with COVID. He was sick in bed with a fever, chills, aches, congestion, and a sore throat.

I had gone out in search of a "farmacia" for medication;

I was completely distracted because my husband was busy texting me. He was trying to explain what medication the physician, who spoke only Italian, had told him to buy. The woman at the farmacia didn't speak English either. Ayayayay,

the last thing I expected at that moment was to see my "pop" suddenly pop up on my iphone!

Perhaps because I was so so surprised, I decided to record dad's appearance. When I told my sister Holly about it (because we often talk about missing our dad!) she was skeptical. "Claud, dad never called himself pop!" she observed. And while she is right, most of the time he did not call himself pop, I do recall times when he was in a good mood, he did refer to himself that way.

This Is How It Works

What happens is this: I am on my phone, texting, and then I put my phone down for a moment. When I go to pick it up again, I have, in the texting line, either:

mom

OR

pop.

Here below, I will show you the latest two contacts, from last week.

The first is from Mom, while I was texting with a friend in the morning:

And the second, three hours later, from my dad (calling himself pop) while I was texting with my daughter Lindsay:

Something similar happened about two weeks before, when Mom and Dad got in touch on the same day. First, when I was texting with my friend Leslie in the morning:

And then, when I was texting with another friend in the afternoon, my dad popped up again.

My Parents Have Helped Me Write Filomena's Story

I'm pretty certain I know why they have been in touch so often. Mom and Dad have been cheering me on as I have been busy writing "Finding Filomena," my tale about how Filomena fell in love and got pregnant and had to give her infant son (my great grandfather Pasquale Orzo) away because she was an unmarried mother. Filomena was my Dad's great grandmother. His mother's maiden name was Orzo, which may also explain why in the last ten years of his life, Dad tried so extraordinarily hard to complete the ORZO family tree.

The Orzo Family Tree

He spent days using an exacto knife to cut out tiny rectangular pieces of paper with each family member's name; he glued them very carefully on a sheet of 11 by 17 inch paper. Despite all his hard work, however, Dad never quite finished the Orzo family tree, which is why I feel certain, in my heart of hearts, that he really wanted me to tell his great grandmother's tragic story.

Dad has also appeared when Rich and I have been texting about politics.

That's not surprising, considering the fact that my dad and I had countless arguments about politics. Dad supported Nixon, Ford, Reagan, and on and on while I supported Carter, Clinton, Obama, Biden. (I never asked my dad if he voted for Trump, because, by 2016, when Dad was 90 years old, I had told him that I refused to argue about politics with him anymore; he was too old, and I cared about him too much.)

The Weirdest iPhone Message of All

By far the most puzzling sighting EVER happened at the end of December, 2023, when my mother appeared not as MOM but as

DEE, which was everybody's favorite nickname for her (my mother's first name was Dena.)

The strangest thing about this DEE sighting on my iPhone was that it came in a conversation with my son Noah, who lives in Colorado. Noah was texting with me and my husband, telling us that he and a good friend had just completed a FOUR (yes, four!) hour meditation. He texted:

"Lots of images of grandparents came up in the last hour"

"Lots of crying"

"They loved me so much!"

And that's EXACTLY when his grandmother DEE appeared as

/e

e dee

on my iPhone. When I pointed this sighting out to my son, he responded:

"That is VERY weird"

and after I sent him more examples, he wrote

"Hmmmm!"

"Maybe there is a ghost afoot!"

Even my sister Holly lost some of her skepticism. When I described to her what had transpired with Noah, sending her that chain of texts after he meditated for four hours, she replied

"Holy crap!"

So now, of course, the question arises: can I explain what's going on here?

Of course not, not if you're asking me to present the underlying physics of how this happens.

Our Ancestors Are With Us But I do have an answer to the question: What does this mean?



What I think it means is that my parents are very close to me, spiritually. Many many times as I have been writing Filomena's story, I have felt their presence. Even though I don't see my therapist Mary Marino anymore, I remember how clearly and emphatically she believed that

there is no death, for the soul, the loved ones we lose are always with us, and

our ancestors are looking out for us, and they love us beyond measure.

She explained it to me this way: "Think about how much you love your children. Then think about how even more precious your grandchildren are to you. Now imagine your grandchildren having children. And those children, and on and on..."

With each generation, your love intensifies.

So I am going to stop here. Because clearly I have gone out on a bit of a shaky limb. I am quite sure that there are readers who are highly skeptical that my parents have been in contact with me. I fully realize that I am asking you the reader to believe in...well, in ghosts, as Noah suggested.

But believing in ghosts doesn't hurt anyone, at least as far as I can tell. And believing in ghosts, for lack of a better word, helps me, especially lately, when the world of politics feels so dark and desperate.

As I look back, I feel an immense amount of love for my parents, and I am endlessly thankful to them for all sorts of blessings they bestowed on me and my family. I am not ashamed to say that one way or another, my mother and father -- along with many of my other ancestors -- have been the wind in my sails as I've written this book. As we say in Italian, I am very very grateful: Sono così così grata!

Neurofeedback: Another Way to Treat Depression!

I am sitting at my dining room table wearing what looks like an old lady’s bathing cap, only this one comes with wires, electrodes and a battery pack.

It may look weird, but lately this safe but very powerful device has become my closest ally in keeping depression at bay. While I wear it, I am doing something called neurofeedback, a decades-old technique that not only has helped me, but also has dramatically improved the lives of others I know, people for whom no other depression treatments have worked.

One of those people is a dear friend in Denver, where I live during the winter months. Carol, whose name I have changed, has tried a boatload of different antidepresssants over the years, but has never found a drug that worked successfully to boost her mood. After my success with neurofeedback late last year, I mentioned the technique to her over coffee in January, and told her how much it was helping me.

The next thing I knew she had found a neurofeedback practitioner and had begun treatment.

When I met Carol for coffee last week, she greeted me by saying, "Claudia, I am deeply indebted to you for that recommendation." I was surprised and delighted, and asked her how she was feeling.

"I am a completely new person," she said.

A Well-Kept Secret in Mental Health Treatment

Carol isn't the only person who has responded so dramatically. I have, and so has my sister and at least one other person I know of. The question I keep asking myself is why did I have to wait until I was in my seventies to discover neurofeedback? Why is this antidepressant treatment such a well-kept secret? Like so many millions of others, I thought the principle way to treat depression was chemical, that is, to take oodles of anti-depressants.

One book I have consulted, called A Symphony in the Brain, by Jim Robbins, suggests why neurofeedback hasn't "exploded onto the treatment landscape."

"Brain wave training remains a victim of the fact that it is outside mainstream concepts, is far ahead of the science of how it works, has a persistent but undeserved reputation as a softheaded 'new age' idea, and is a model that -- unlike the drug model -- doesn't lend itself to astronomical profits."

In other words, Big Pharma hasn't found a way to make oodles of money on neurofeedback.

How Neurofeedback Works

When people learn about my experience, they inevitably ask me how neurofeedback works. Here is what I understand. I sit before a computer screen displaying powerful visual images -- like spectacular photos of the cosmos or gorgeous scenes from what looks like the Colorado Rockies where my husband and I love to hike.

But I don't see the entire image all at once. Instead, I receive it piece by piece, one small rectangle at a time. My brain in effect earns each new section of the image only when I'm emitting the optimal brain waves.

Through this process, my brain learns to reprogram itself. What do I need to do to generate these improved brain waves? Not much. I am instructed simply to relax and focus on the image. Often, I find myself smiling knowing I am effectively crafting a healthier brain -- it feels rather cosmic.

OK, but I can't say precisely how that brain reprogramming happens. How exactly do brain neurons that have been firing one way for years, suddenly change gears and fire in another way?

Even neurofeedback practitioners aren't exactly sure how it works. But the important thing is, they know it does work. And unlike many antidepressant drugs, neurofeedback doesn't seem to have any adverse side effects, either.

My Sister's Introduction to Neurofeedback

It was my younger sister, Karen Ricci, trained as an RN and public health researcher, who first introduced me to the idea of neurofeedback. She started working with a neurofeedback practitioner in Hadley, Massachusetts, Mark Gapen, PhD, last June and pretty soon Karen reported to me that her mood had lifted in a remarkable way, one that she had never experienced before. She wasn’t giddy; she simply felt like she had a buoyant new energy.

“I’m awfully glad I found it,” she says. It has made all the difference in how my sister feels about life. She is upbeat and energetic, and thinking about life in a positive way.

From Political Depression to Personal Crisis

I grew a lot more interested in neurofeedback after the election last November, when, like millions and millions of other Americans, I felt like I had rolled off a cliff into a deep dark crevass of fear, depression and terror at what was to come.

Meanwhile, a week later, my husband was told that he needed major back surgery. That too had me tied up in knots. The combination was deadly, or so it felt in late November.

I talked to my therapist and she mentioned that she had a client who was having remarkable results with neurofeedback.

“He’s tried everything,” Maureen told me, “including ketamine and nothing worked for him before, not until this!”

That was enough for me. I quickly called the neurofeedback practitioner that her client was seeing in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. By some miracle, I was able to get an appointment.

Rapid Results that Seem Impossible

OK, this next part might strike you as impossible. But I swear it’s the truth: after a couple of intake discussions by phone, I had my first neurofeedback session in Pittsfield on December 10th with family therapist Margaret Dondiego, who is board certified in neurofeedback. I had two sessions with her the following week, on December 17th and 19th. I skipped a week or so for the holidays and had my fourth session on January 2, 2025, just a few days before my husband and I left for Colorado.

By that point, I was feeling a dramatic improvement in my mood.

Moreover, as I explained to Margaret, I was feeling more calm and resilient than I had in a very long time.

How is it possible that four sessions could have such an impact?

The short answer is that neurofeedback builds on the brain’s inherent “neuroplasticity,” its natural ability to change, and it leads the brain to function more calmly and effectively. As one website explains, neurofeedback is a safe and non-invasive technique that enables you to alter your own brain wave characteristics. “You can think of it as exercise for the brain.”

Or as Margaret keeps emphasizing with me, “you are rewiring your brain so that it can better regulate itself.” She adds: “It is, in a certain way, technology-assisted meditation.”

That’s something I can relate to, as I’ve been meditating every morning for decades.

The Science Behind the Treatment

Margaret’s initial instructions to me when I first started in her office were very simple. “Try to remain internally calm and externally focused.” Why? Because if you’re not calm and focused, you won’t get the brain reward that neurofeedback delivers.

The field of neurofeedback has been around as far back as the 1970s and 1980s, when researchers began studying the effects of neurofeedback on control epilepsy.

One of the biggest proponents of the field today is psychologist Sebern Fisher, who is based in Northampton, MA. Dr. Fisher trains practitioners in neurofeedback all over the world. Beginning in about 1996, she began using neurofeedback on children and adolescents who were suffering from severe abuse and trauma.

As clinical director of a residential treatment center in Massachusetts for many years, Dr. Fisher encountered some of the most difficult and destructive behaviors imaginable in a population of kids who never had love from a mother or other primary caretaker. Many of these kids were shipped from one foster home to another. Most suffered from neglect or complete abandonment.

What's amazing is that Dr. Fisher discovered that neurofeedback worked wonders in this hard-to-treat population. Neurofeedback acted on the so-called "primitive" brain, helping kids and young adults who desperately needed to deal with their fear, the emotion which is at the heart of so-called developmental trauma. What Dr. Sebern found is that after treatment with neurofeedback, these children were able to begin talk therapy for the very first time in their lives.

My Ongoing Journey

When I first saw Margaret,

I had the feeing that no amount of talk therapy would move me out of my slump. I was completely unwilling to consider that I might be able to meet the challenges facing me. Or think about life in a positive way. But after only a few sessions, I felt like I was back in the land of the living, feeling hopeful in spite of the problems I had perceived to be overwhelming only weeks before.

I have told Margaret several times over the last three months that I feel "resilient," that is, I have a calm feeling of confidence in myself. And I believe in a gut way that I can handle life's ups and downs.

My friend Carol in Denver describes a similar experience. Her mood is lifted in a way it wasn't before. And for the first time in her adult life, she is starting to exercise. Like me, she describes feeling resilient and energized.

Because my husband and I live in Colorado in the winter months, helping to take care of our grandson, I am not able to see Margaret for neurofeedback in her office in Massachusetts. But Margaret has helped me acquire (and wire) that silly contraption that I have on my head in the photo up top. Outfitted with my odd-looking cap, and an easy-to-use app on

my iphone, I can now do neurofeedback wherever I happen to be.

If all this sounds implausible, I assure you it isn’t.

I am living proof that neurofeedback works. I continue to marvel at its power to positively affect mind and brain. But it isn't just my experience. Jim Robbins, author of A Symphony in the Brain, writes, "The effects of neurofeedback are not subtle. They are extremely robust. There is nothing else like it, not even other kinds of biofeedback That's one of the reasons it has languished. There is nothing to compare it to."

Unfortunately, practitioners and researchers trying to get grants to study neurofeedback have been stymied. One highly respected researcher at UCLA, Dr. Barry Sherman, has done pioneering research on neurofeedback, and has published more than 150 papers in top journals. He has applied for grants to continue studying neurobeedback but the NIH has turned him down.

"...the National Institutes of Health will not give us grants," Sherman told author Robbins. "We've written solid grants but the minute you use the term neurofeedback certain people's minds snap shut. Sometimes I feel like Galileo."

This personal account reflects my own experience with neurofeedback. While it has been transformative for me, individual results may vary. Always consult healthcare professionals about treatment options for depression or other mental health conditions. If you are looking for a neurofeedback practitioner in your area, be sure to consult the Biofeedback Certification International Alliance (BCIA), the organization that certifies individuals in the practise.

Resurrected Once Again by Art, and Love

It's no accident that it has been months since I last wrote a blogpost. The election leveled me (and so many millions of others.) It felt like the world had ended. What point was there in writing another blogpost? But then the most wonderful things started to happen, all to do with friends and their writing and their art. What follows is the story of those things. I posted it first on my Substack column, called "Here, Now."

One of my favorite Christmas cards this season comes from an old friend and lifelong political activist who turned painter in his retirement. Jeff Blum is a person I admire for many reasons, not the least of which is that he devoted his entire energy this past fall to the political fight in North Carolina. The fact that Dems did reasonably well in that state is testament in part to the work by him and so many other activists.

But it was Jeff’s holiday card to me and my husband Richard Kirsch, another lifelong political activist who introduced me to Jeff years back, that touched me. The painting on front is his own, an image of his precious granddaughter Kira sitting in a chair. Inside he writes:

“Peace? Justice? Democracy? Back at it. Glad to share the [political] work with you. And we still have art.”

I haven’t been able to write a word here in Substack since the debacle that was the election, but that card started me thinking that maybe, maybe, art could lead me out of my deep doldrums.

But then I dismissed the idea: who wanted to hear my voice, talking about the gut punch that was Dump’s win. Certainly not me.

The next nudge came from a student of mine, from decades ago, who is fighting a valiant battle against an aggressive case of Parkinson’s. The fact that Josh Powell is writing so furiously intrigued me. As did a long conversation I had with him a few weeks back, to discuss a very important memoir he is writing, called “Father and Son.” At the end of our talk, he encouraged me to start writing. “Don’t you remember what you used to tell all your students? That no matter what the feelings are, you have to sit down and just write?!”

Sure, I thought. But how do I do that with absolutely nothing to say?

And then came the texts from my wonderful sister-in-law Fawn Frome Walker, who is an extraordinary watercolor painter.

She texted to ask how I was doing since she had not heard from me in a while. I told her my energy post-Dump’s triumph was lower than Death Valley. I told her that I didn’t know how I was going to go forward. She wrote me back. Twice. The first time she said:

“Was thinking about you and your trump funk. I think the best way to get around this is to NOT waste time, energy or love on anything to do with it. You’re giving away your power by staying in a funk…”

🙏

Yes, what she wrote was absolutely right. And it made me think a little more about writing and painting. Her words, and her concern and love, gave me a tweak of hope. I was reminded that no matter what happens in life, we really have no choice but to live bravely and carry on. I learned that lesson very well when I had cancer 23 years ago. That’s when I started painting. (You can read my tale about art and healing here on MyStoryLives.)

I knew Fawn was right, that I was indeed leaking power, big time. Somehow, I needed to figure it out. I had to fight my way back on track. And then two days before Christmas she texted me this genuinely good tidbit from author Mel Robbins:

“Don’t give up on this year. Keep fighting for the good. Keep showing up. Keep loving. Keep being kind. Keep being brave. Keep caring. Keep trying new things. Keep showing grace. Keep on.

“This world needs you to believe in the good.”

All of what Robbins said resonated. That combined with Jeff’s card and Fawn’s words stirred me further, made me think, OK, I really must start painting. Nothing earthshaking happened. On a scale of one to ten, the energy I felt was about a four, but it was just enough to get me seeing myself smearing bright colors on white canvas. Some kind of buoyancy, a tiny creativity wave if you will, was set in motion. It started to roll and twist and pull something out of my heart.

And so a few days ago I finally took out some paint. I reached for tubes intuitively, in other words, I picked colors that resonated: bright yellow and tomato red and almost neon orange. Oh, and white and turquoise. I took a large palette knife and scooped up the squiggles of paint and shimmied them onto the white canvas. And as so often happens when I start playing with paint, I felt a twinge of joy. It wasn’t like it hit me over the head or anything. It was more like it gave me a firm nudge in the ribs.

I painted for a steady couple of hours that first day. I actually took out a second unfinished painting, one that’s been on hold for many many months and began working on that one too.

Meanwhile, during meditation, I continued to ask the Universe for help, invoking the Divine Feminine in Italian: Per favore, Divina Femminile, aiutamì a cominciare a dipingere e scrivere. There is power in asking the Universe for help.

And then finally, the last straw, or in this case, the match that was needed to rekindle my creative fire, was a particularly moving and magnificent essay by that friend and former student, Josh Powell. So powerful was this piece of writing, called “The Perfect Lens,” that practically overnight it acted on my subconscious, giving me the sustenance and psychic support I needed to begin creating again.

What Josh said in the essay was, basically, that even though he is quickly losing ground to the Parkinson’s, he is not giving up:

“While my physical capabilities diminish, my anger sometimes flares - not from depression or fear, but from the fierce desire to continue embracing life in all its fullness. This anger, too, is a kind of gift - evidence of how deeply I've loved this life I've been given…So I'll keep writing, keep loving, keep finding the divine in flowing waters and human hearts. There's such beauty in seeing life through the perfect lens of mortality - how it brings everything into sharp, precious focus. Every sunrise becomes a psalm, every shared laugh a hallelujah, every moment of connection a small miracle.”

I love Josh, and I love his writing. And knowing that he is as wildly courageous as a tiger at this time in his life — he turns 60 this year — made me see that Fawn was absolutely spot on when she said that that I can’t waste any more time wallowing in funk.

All of it came to fruition as I meditated a couple mornings ago, all of the messages — from Jeff, Fawn and Josh — began swirling around and around inside my brain and heart, and in an instant, I felt an exquisite ball of fire take over.

When meditation ended, I went back to work on the second painting — which I realized is for a very dear friend facing another serious health challenge. Hell, it may not be a great painting, but that’s not the point. I am painting again. With love for those who matter so much to me.

And all that got me writing this.

There are so many many people I love who are hurting right now, all of us dreading the dark chaos that awaits our nation. I continue to pray and meditate, asking for miracles. But I know that prayer is at heart a conversation with the divine, not a petition per se. Miracles may not be in store.

No matter what happens to us, though, I know my friends are right when they say we have to continue to believe that we have power. We have agency. We have the ability to try something new, both as individuals and as groups.

The best way I know how is to express power is through art. I tell people all the time, you should try throwing paint on canvas and see if it lifts your heart. For me, painting is all about play. As children, we play with the world around us, in simple and complex ways, and this play gives us unbridled joy, and teaches us a myriad of things. And it reaches inside our hearts and lights our imagination.

If you’ve ever thought about painting, if you’ve ever had the least desire to do it, I highly recommend you don’t wait. Take yourself to a store and buy yourself a canvas or a notebook. Try alcohol ink, which you blow through a straw. Or acrylics which I use in part because they’re so easy to wash away if you are displeased with what you are producing. Easier still, get yourself some lush crayons or lovely pastels and apply them to whatever surface appeals to you. Or stick to drawing, black charcoal pencil on white. The point is, let go, make a mess, but most of all, have a little fun, even if it’s just a bit. Somehow the act of making color and lines, or taking photographs. It all helps to ease the pain.

So if you’re not a painter and have no desire to be? How about going to a museum and just sitting on one of those cushioned benches and staring at a piece of art that moves you.

It’s a little like visiting old (or new) friends. It kindles warmth and love. Which of course is essential post-election.

Is it any wonder that art works so profoundly on our hearts and minds? Like everything else in the Universe, artistic expression is a form of energy. When it comes to healing, indigenous peoples down through the ages have known where to start: with the spirit, the energy and grace of the Universe, captured in song and sound and image and words expressed by human beings.

As the year ends, I keep returning to the Italian words that I have written in my journal and spoken out loud over and over again this year as I’ve been writing a novel about a very brave ancestor — my Great Great Grandmother, Filomena Scrivano — who grew up in the southern Italian region of Calabria, and had a baby (my great grandfather) out of wedlock in 1870. It is an absolute miracle he survived.

I’ve got so much to be grateful for. Sono così così grato. I am so so grateful.

For art of all kinds, for the love of family and friends, for health and well-being, for animals and nature in all its wonders. For life.

Stories My Grandmother -- Albina Orzo Ricci -- Told Me

Grandma Albina was only six years old, but she knew for sure she didn't like dried figs. Or dried pork. But that's all there was to eat during that miserable year or so she spent living in Italy with her parents and her three younger sisters. It was the spring of 1909 when her father, my great grandfather Pasquale Orzo, decided to try his luck becoming a farmer over in Paola, the seaside town in Calabria in southern Italy where he was born in 1870.

Grandma's reaction to the new world that she encountered back in the Old World sounds pretty typical for a child of six: "I didn't like the food," she said. And that's not all she objected to.

"I was used to drinking coffee and milk." But in Italy, there wasn't any coffee to be had. From our modern vantage point, living in the bountiful USA, it's hard to believe there was no coffee in Italy in those days. But the more I learn about my ancestor Pasquale Orzo's life in Calabria, the more I realize how little people there had to eat.

Great Grandma Caterina Amendola Orzo, wife of Pasquale Orzo. She passed in November of 1951, exactly a year before I was born.

If people drank warm beverages at all in the morning in the 1900s, it was most likely chicory, derived from chicory root, which was roasted, ground and brewed. Ironically, the other possibility is that my Orzo ancestors may have drunk orzo, otherwise known as barley wheat. Called caffe d'orzo, the grain was, like chicory, roasted and ground before it was brewed.

These and other interesting details emerged during a wonderful conversation I had on August 29, 2024, with my Aunt Bette (nee Ricci) Foeller, who was the youngest of my grandmother Albina's five children. My Dad, Ric Ricci, was Aunt Bette's

older brother.Above, my Aunt Bette (Elizabeth Ricci) Foeller, with her father, my grandfather, Angelo Ricci, in her vegetable garden in Hudson, Illinois

Below, me holding a photo of my Dad, Ric Ricci, who served in the U.S. Army during World War II.

For as long as I can remember, Aunt Bette has made her home in Illinois, near Normal, where her now-deceased husband, George Foeller, had a long and very distinguished career at Illinois State University as Director of Bands and Trombone instructor. Uncle George was also the originator of the Big Red Marching Band at the University. He will be formally inducted into the Marching Band Hall of Fame on Saturday, October 19, 2024, at Illinois State, where he retired in 1990 after 30 years with the University.

My conversation with Aunt Bette (which I recorded) focused on some extraordinary stories that I learned directly from my Grandma Albina Ricci; I tooks notes during our conversation, which took place nearly 45 years ago, on seven small pieces of paper.

It was sometime about 1980 when Grandma Albina sat me down in her kitchen one afternoon and poured her heart out to me. At the time Grandma and I spoke, I was 28 years old. I couldn't begin to grasp the significance of what she was telling me. Nonetheless, I knew enough to save all the notes I took -- in red magic marker pen. I slipped those seven pieces of paper into an orange file labeled "Pasquale Orzo," and that's where they sat until the day in late August when I finally took them out, and carefully examined them.

The first thing Grandma described to me was how her father, Pasquale, at 28 years of age, fell in love with her mother, Caterina Amendola. Grandma told me that Caterina was 15 at the time: "He saw her one day, combing her long long, dark brown hair, almost black, almost to her hips. He was fascinated by her! They were married within six months," in January, 1898, in a beautiful seaside church named for San Giovanni, perched on a cliff in San Lucido, Italy.

Last October, in 2023, my husband Richard Kirsch and I had the great privilege of standing in that church in San Lucido where

my great grandparents Pasquale and Caterina were married. What a thrill that was -- and what happened after we stepped out of the church,

with the ocean a few steps away -- that was even more extraordinary.

Even though the sun was setting into the Mediterranean in the western sky,

an ethereal dazzling pink and yellow light was somehow coming from the East and flooding the outside of the church and the beautiful surrounding town.

That very special sunlight even had our young tour guide -- Antonello Zaccharia, who grew up in nearby Amantea, flummoxed. That breathtaking light lasted for several minutes.

Back to the red pages. Grandma Albina told me many stories in that conversation in 1980, but what stands out is the story she told me about the horrendous year or so she spent living in southern Italy with her family. In the spring of 1909, when Grandma was still six years old, and the oldest of her siblings, traveled back to Italy to the seaside town of Paola, the town adjacent to San Lucido.

Grandma said that it was her father Pasquale's intention to settle in Italy and become a farmer in his birthplace. At first, Grandma seemed to think it would be nice to live beside the ocean in the Mediterranean climate in Paola: "You could hear the beach waves. It wasn't ever winter."

But things didn't go well at all for her father. After ten months in Paola,

Driving to Paola last October, 2023, we saw plenty of road signs for Paola, and for Cosenza, the regional capital.

Pasquale abandoned the idea of becoming a farmer because he couldn't acquire land. Grandma didn't say it, but I am convinced that the reason Pasquale was unable to buy land in Paola was because people in that town were deeply prejudiced against him: after all, he was born to a woman who was unmarried -- and in that time and place in history, being a "bastardo" was extraordinarily shameful for my great grandfather and his entire family. Indeed, that heavy burden shame followed him and his six daughters -- including my Grandma Albina-- for the rest of their lives.

We know about Pasquale's birth mother thanks to some extraordinary sleuthing by my cousin, Donna Ricci -- her father Bob was my Dad's older brother. In an event that sounds like it came from a movie, Donna discovered a single photograph in an old trunk bequeathed to her by Grandma Albina's younger sister, Lisetta. On the back of the photo, a woman named Filomena (Pera) Scrivano wrote in 1919, in Italian, addressing her beloved son, Pasquale. It was that photo, and extensive genealogical research by my cousin Donna, that led her in 2014 to write a highly detailed narrative about the Orzo family lineage. It was because of that narrative that I came to write my novel, Finding Filomena, which tells a redeeming story about Filomena. Because of her last name, Scrivano, I turn my great great grandmother into a writer, and I tell the tale of how she comes to fall deeply in love with a wealthy man from Tuscany. Their child is my great grandfather, Pasquale Orzo.

Speaking to me in 1980, Grandma never breathed a word about the fact her father was illegitimate; she and her sisters were so deeply ashamed of their father's status they managed to keep it a secret their whole lives. But amazingly, Grandma did provide an important hint to me about what went on with her father: on one page of my notes, off to the left side, I wrote down very clearly that her father had been fed by a "wet nurse."

Filomena Scrivano, above, mother to Pasquale Orzo, below.

Once he gave up on being a farmer in Italy, Pasquale returned to the states, but he left behind his wife, Caterina, along with Grandma Albina and her three younger sisters -- at least one or two of whom must have still been in diapers. They all moved in with Caterina's father, Giuseppe, and his new wife, Madelena. Giuseppi's first wife, Alvira -- Caterina's mother -- had passed away.

I imagine it was mighty difficult for Madelena to welcome into her small home her husband's daughter, along with four children under the age of seven. But it was Grandma who seems to have suffered the most because of the situation. Referring to Madelena, Grandma told me, "She didn't treat me good!" To make matters worse, Grandma's mother, Caterina, blamed Grandma for not getting along with the -- ok, I'll say it, the EVIL -- stepmother.

There were other problems. Grandma told me: "We four kids got measles, mumps and all the childhood diseases."

Eventually, Caterina and the children had to leave her father's house; it wasn't easy to find another place to live: "We got an apartment because my mother had a friend who knew of a place." But this place wasn't an apartment: "It was one big room, for four children and our mother. It was stucco."

It was miserable, particularly because as the oldest child, Grandma was expected to help chase after the younger children; sometimes that also meant she had to scramble to find them food.

Speaking about her mother, Grandma said Caterina was extremely mild-mannered, in contrast to Pasquale, who had a notorious temper. Grandma said her mother was bashful, and she was mortified, too, specifically, about sex. Caterina wasn't prepared at all to have sex with her 28-year old husband, Grandma said. Her mother wasn't prepared for childbirth, either. Still 16 when she delivered her first baby, Caterina's labor lasted an exhausting three days and three nights.

The child, Adelina, or Lela, apparently was born with a congenital defect. She passed away at the age of five, her death a source of great heartbreak to her parents. Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of the heartbreak Pasquale and Caterina suffered over children passing. Out of the ten children they had, four passed at a very young age.

When he came back to Bristol after giving up on farming in Italy, Grandma said Pasquale worked as a mason. He built the steeple of the Lutheran church in town. He also eventually built the family a home at 295 Park Street in Bristol; eventually that home was passed down to subsequent generations.

When Caterina finally returned from Italy to join her husband in Bristol, she travelled in the company of her brother, Gaetano Amendola. The ship's manifest (Cousin Donna Ricci examined dozens of ship manifests when she was researching our Orzo family history) indicates Caterina used her maiden name Amendola. There she was, travelling across the Atlantic with four young daughters and her brother. It makes sense that she used the family name, Amendola.

Back in Bristol, Gaetano went to work in a factory called New Departure. Soon, though, according to Grandma Albina, Gaetano's wife back in Italy wrote to ask her husband to return to Italy to get her. Once there, however, Gaetano's wife convinced him to go to Brazil rather than to the US. Eventually, a very sad Caterina received a letter from her brother, telling her that he had settled in Rio de Janeiro, and was working as a fruit seller.

Caterina, Grandma recalled, was brokenhearted. She missed her brother terribly.

Now I understand why Grandma and her sisters traveled (by prop plane) in the 1950s and 60s to visit our relatives in Rio de Janeiro. Apparently, one of those relatives edited a magazine in Rio. I would be very curious to know what it was called!

Great grandma Caterina was 69 when she died; Grandma Albina's sister, Lisetta, quit her nursing job to take care of her mother after Caterina was diagnosed with a heart condition. In those days, there wasn't much to be done about a heart problem.

It was during this period that Aunt Bette, Grandma's youngest child, used to visit her grandmother, who she calls "Nonna Caterina." Bette, born in 1934, attended Saint Anthony's Catholic School, the elementary school attached to Grandma Albina's parish. I attended this school, too, until third grade, when my Dad and Mom made the bold decision to move us out of the Ricci family orbit in Bristol "far away" to Poughkeepsie, New York, so Dad could take advantage of a wonderful career opportunity, a job as a Customer Engineer with IBM. Working in Poughkeepsie, I am proud to say, Dad's career in the booming computer industry flourished.

Back to Aunt Bette's tale: "I was about eight years old then, and after school, I would go to Nonna Caterina's house on Upson Street and wait for my parents, who were working at Ingraham's, the clock factory in Bristol."

"I got to know Great Grandma Caterina very well. She was a very sweet and affectionate woman, and she was so lovely, with that long, long flowing brown hair."

"It was very very nice for me to be with Nonna. One thing I remember very clearly is Nonna combing her hair in front of the window. Then she would braid her hair and use those amber pins to secure a bun in back. She would be sure to have the window open too, and so she would pick basil from the window box and stick the twig of basil into her hair. When I think of Nonna, I always think of the fragrance of sweet basil. She was a very, very lovely person."

I asked Aunt Bette if she knew that Nonna Caterina had a weak heart.

"Well, when I was with her, she didn't seem sick. She would putter around, but then, I never saw her do anything too strenuous or physically taxing."

Curiously, Aunt Bette has no memory of Nonna Caterina dying in November of 1951, about a year before I was born in November of 1952.

"In those days," Aunt Bette recalled, "adults protected children from death or any mention or discussion of it."

"Do you remember her being in bed?"

"No, because I wasn't allowed to be in her company when she was sick. And by that time, I was old enough so that I didn't have to go to Nonna Caterina's house anymore after school. I went to the Girls Club, so I missed seeing her. But I learned how to do so many things, one of the things I learned how to do was sew."

"Oh Aunt Bette, I remember going to the Girls Club too!"

Aunt Bette was born in 1934, I was born in 1952, so she was 18 years old when I was born. I tell her that it was a huge age difference in those days; but today, she is 90 and I am 71, and I feel like I am closer to her in age and experience than I am to so many family members younger than me.

"I certainly feel closer to you in experinence than I do to my children. I've entered into the ancestor range...actually I tell people that I feel like I am 'an ancestor in training.' I don't mind it, either." I laugh.

I recalled for Aunt Bette what my dad used to say to me as he got to be in his mid-80s. I'd say "Dad, I can't deal with you and Mom dying..." I tell Aunt Bette that as a child, I found it very very difficult to think about death. It was especially a problem for me during summer vacations when I had a lot of time on my hands to ponder, and to worry.

"I'd wait for Dad to come home from work during those long summer days and I'd go into Mom and Dad's bedroom and start crying, and carrying on. I'd say 'I don't want you to ever die.'"

Naturally, Mom and Dad would try to soothe me, saying "Oh honey, now don't be worrying about that. We are going to live a long, long time."

When Dad was well into his eighties, I was in my early 60s, and I would say once again to him that I was struggling with the idea of him and Mom dying. "I don't know how to let you go Dad. You or Mom!" What I didn't say to him, but didn't have to say, was that I was troubled thinking about my own mortality.

Dad could be such a bear sometimes -- displaying outbursts of what we called fondly the "Orzo" temper -- but in this case, he was instead very, very sweet to me. "Oh, Sparky, (his favorite nickname for me was Sparky, or "Spargegela," in Italian) when you get there, you'll be ready."

I told this to Aunt Bette: "Dad was amazing..I really appreciate now what an incredible dad he was. And my mom, she was so amazing too."

At that very moment, I had to stop the interview!

"Oh my God there are two Baltimore orioles here at the orange feeder, Aunt Bette, oh my heavens, excuse me, Aunt Bette, I just have to take a photo. There, I just took one, now I have to go closer..." Could that be? Were these two Baltimore Orioles my mom and dad visiting me?

Aunt Bette asks: "Do you feed the orioles grape jelly?"

"Oh yes, yes we do, and we even found a bottle of Welch's that is made of plastic, you squirt it right into the orange Oriole feeder."

I pause to send her the photos and the phone connection disappears. And then it's back:

"You know Aunt Bette, my sister Holly and I have talked about the fact that Grandma had a really really rough time of it growing up. She had a father who was enraged over his circumstances. And she was very bright. She had great unrealized potential."

Ironically, though, she didn't want my very bright Dad to go to college; she told him, "your dad has worked at Ingraham's all his life, if it was good enough for him, why isn't it good enough for you?"

At the end of the conversation, I tell Aunt Bette that all in all, while Grandma certainly had her shortcomings, "I've become much much more forgiving toward her, after reading through these seven pages of notes."

Aunt Bette laughs, that husky laugh of hers. I recall how Aunt Bette used to smoke as a young woman; she gave up the habit when it became so clear cigarettes are extremely dangerous to one's health.

"Let's talk again," I say, and I tell her how much I've enjoyed sharing information with her while writing Finding Filomena.

"Oh yes," she agrees. "It's been so much fun for me too!"

"Well, so, that's it for today Aunt Bette. I'm so glad that we had this chance to talk. I really wanted you to know what it was Grandma told me so long ago."

Indeed, I have "known" for more than four decades all kinds of things about my grandmother and her family. Why did it take me such a long long time to realize what my grandma had said to me? I wish I could answer that question but I can't. It is what it is. Thankfully, though, as I am finishing writing Finding Filomena, I finally have brought forth the stories from those seven magical, red magic-markered pages in the orange file.