I still remember when, still a boy, I entered one of the ancient silver mines hidden in the mountain that had given so much wealth and pain to our village. They were a big hole in the mountain with an old fence next to it where the donkeys were kept going back and forth in the mine tunnels until they went blind. Upon entering you were welcomed by a damp and cold breeze that looked like the breath of a big monster; in reality we were looking for a monster, hidden in those huge rooms full of stalactites and stalagmites as we saw in movies or read in books. In the dark you could hear the drops of water that had crossed the mountain, dripping between the tracks on which our relatives had pushed the carts for which they collected the ore for centuries. The mine was getting darker and darker and didn’t invite you to go on. At some point the ground descended steeply and discontinuously. We preferred to go back to the entrance to avoid problems. At the entrance you could still hear the drops of water descending into the puddles and the cold breath of the monster struggling with the heat of the day dancing around the entrance carved into the rock with a pickaxe. I understood then that the rock, and the mountain to which it belonged, lived. It was not a life equal to ours but with different times and ways and we could not even judge or understand it; how could a butterfly who lived a day or two understand our life made up of thousands of its years? how could we understand the life of the earth, the rock, a mountain that lasted millions of years? Their slow moving and melting in the rains in their constant and invisible race to the sea? This is why for me rock, sand or mountains are living things whose life is infinite for us, but for the stars or nebulae, they are only moments, minutes of continuous inexhaustible motionless movement.Grotte di Sant’angelo Muxaro, grotte evaporitiche risalenti a circa sei milioni di anni fa. Caves of Sant’angelo Muxaro, evaporitic caves dating back to about six million years ago.
Ricordo ancora quando ancora ragazzo sono entrato in una delle antiche miniere di argento nascoste nel monte che avevano dato tanta ricchezza e dolore al nostro villaggio. Erano un grosso buco nel monte con accanto un vecchio recinto dove erano custoditi gli asinelli che andavano avanti e indietro nei tunnel della miniera fino a diventare ciechi. Entrando ti accoglieva una brezza umida e fredda che sembrava l’alito di un grosso mostro; in realtà noi cercavamo un mostro, nascosto in quelle sale enormi piene di stalattitici e stalagmiti come vedevamo nei film o leggevamo nei libri. Nel buio si sentivano le gocce d’acqua che avevano attraversato il monte, gocciolare tra i binari su cui i nostri parenti avevano spinto per secoli i carelli in cui raccoglievano il minerale. La miniera diventava sempre più buia e non invitava ad andare avanti. Ad un certo punto il terreno scendeva in modo ripido e discontinuo. Preferimmo tornare indietro all’ingresso per evitare problemi. All’ingresso si sentivano ancora le gocce d’acqua scendere nelle pozzanghere e l’alito freddo del mostro lottare con la calura del giorno che danzava intorno alla bocca della miniera scolpitoanella roccia a colpi di piccone. Capii allora che la roccia, e la montagna a cui apparteneva, viveva. Non era una vita uguale alle nostre ma con tempi e modi diversi e non potevamo neanche giudicarla o capirla; come poteva, una farfalla che viveva uno o due giorni, capire la nostra vita fatta di migliaia dei suoi anni? come potevamo capire noi la vita della terra, della roccia, di un monte che durava milioni di anni? Quel loro lento muoversi e sciogliersi nelle piogge nella loro costante ed invisibile corsa verso il mare? Per questo per me la roccia, la sabbia o le montagne sono dei viventi la cui vita è per noi infinita, ma per le stelle o le nebulose, sono solo attimi, minuti di continuo inesausto immobile movimento.
I still remember when, still a boy, I entered one of the ancient silver mines hidden in the mountain that had given so much wealth and pain to our village. They were a big hole in the mountain with an old fence next to it where the donkeys were kept going back and forth in the mine tunnels until they went blind. Upon entering you were welcomed by a damp and cold breeze that looked like the breath of a big monster; in reality we were looking for a monster, hidden in those huge rooms full of stalactites and stalagmites as we saw in movies or read in books. In the dark you could hear the drops of water that had crossed the mountain, dripping between the tracks on which our relatives had pushed the carts for which they collected the ore for centuries. The mine was getting darker and darker and didn’t invite you to go on. At some point the ground descended steeply and discontinuously. We preferred to go back to the entrance to avoid problems. At the entrance you could still hear the drops of water descending into the puddles and the cold breath of the monster struggling with the heat of the day dancing around the entrance carved into the rock with a pickaxe. I understood then that the rock, and the mountain to which it belonged, lived. It was not a life equal to ours but with different times and ways and we could not even judge or understand it; how could a butterfly who lived a day or two understand our life made up of thousands of its years? how could we understand the life of the earth, the rock, a mountain that lasted millions of years? Their slow moving and melting in the rains in their constant and invisible race to the sea? This is why for me rock, sand or mountains are living things whose life is infinite for us, but for the stars or nebulae, they are only moments, minutes of continuous inexhaustible motionless movement.
jacobvanloon
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