Pilgrimage | NOMAD Slow TV

Italia, Origins

Après avoir traversé le Québec dans "Retour aux sources" où le cinéaste Jason Rodi sonde les racines maternelles, la deuxième saison d’Origines intitulée "Pèlerinage" nous plonge dans les profondeurs de la Calabre, Italie. C'est là, dans un contexte modeste, que le père de Jason vit le jour. Cette saison révèle le voyage des ancêtres de Jason depuis l'Italie, marqués par la pauvreté, jusqu'à une renaissance au Canada. Au cœur du récit se trouve la légende de la Madonna della Grotta, une statue vénérée, objet de pèlerinage et pilier de l'histoire familiale. Accompagné de ses filles, Jane et AliX, Jason leur fait vivre cette immersion spirituelle et culturelle, désirant leur transmettre la richesse de leurs origines. La quête se poursuit aux côtés de Charlotte, sa compagne, traversant l'Italie sur les traces de ces ancêtres qui, bravant monts et mers, ont finalement élu domicile au Québec. Plus qu'une exploration, c'est un hommage à l'héritage familial, une passerelle entre le passé et l'avenir.

Today, AliX, Jane, and I traced our lineage back to its origin, back to the stories that made us who we are. In the heart of Bombile lies a parcel of land, still owned by my family, where my father was born in a humble barn on a chilly Christmas day 67 years ago. Among the olive and lemon trees, he grew in a world devoid of luxuries like electricity or water — a testament to a time when life was simpler, yet incredibly tough. My grandmother once recounted how she joined my grandfather in Canada when my father was just 8 years old. From these modest beginnings, he bloomed, becoming possibly the most well-traveled man in history. To this day, he captivates listeners with tales of his village, where money held no sway, a testament to building an empire from literally nothing. It's a story of resilience, of rising from the ashes, and it never fails to humble me.

Bombile is also home to the legend of the Madonna della Grotta. The story goes that a mystical statue was repeatedly carried by a donkey to a cave, regardless of attempts to place her atop the hill in the chapel. Night after night, the statue would mysteriously find its way back to the cave. This enigma turned the Madonna of the Cave into a beacon for pilgrims from afar. My Nonna narrated this tale to us, her grandchildren, with a twinkle in her eyes. Even when the cave crumbled 15 years ago, the Madonna emerged without a scratch, now proudly displayed for all to see. In a twist of fate, I married at this very site, mere weeks post the cave's collapse — an omen that eerily mirrored the trajectory of my own marriage. For Jane and AliX, this place must resonate deeply. They, like me, grew up hearing tales of its magic. As a child, I harbored dreams of bringing my offspring here, and today that dream has been realized. My deepest wish is that today has enriched Jane and AliX's sense of self, reminding them of their legacy and the strength of the roots that anchor them.

To be grounded everywhere, that's the path I've chosen: the Way of the NOMAD. It's a longing, a thirst, an aspiration that runs deep within my veins. Everywhere I wander, I want to feel the embrace of the land, to recognize every nook and cranny as home. To truly know oneself is to find that sense of belonging, even in the most unfamiliar terrains.

There's this balance I seek, a kind of symphony between the earth and sky. Feet planted firmly on the ground while my mind roams boundless, exploring the vast expanse of the sky. It's reminiscent of tales from bygone days, of the Garden of Eden, where the tree of knowledge stood tall and proud. Oh, how I adore that parable. A garden where our innocence, our lack of consciousness, was both our freedom and our shackles. How paradoxical, yet so profound.

Before the advent of knowledge, there was a naive liberty we bathed in. But knowledge, that double-edged sword, granted us consciousness and with it, an immense burden. The weight of choice, the dichotomy of right and wrong. Nature, in all its wild glory, knows no such bounds. Its rhythm is primal, raw, often savage, but devoid of moral judgments. In the Garden, pre-consciousness, our lives were likely harsh and brutal, but we danced in ignorance. We were one with the world, unburdened by the nuances of morality.

Here I stand in Calabria, in the quaint embrace of Bombile. This land holds stories of my forebears. My grandparents, my father, all born of this soil. It's a rare pilgrimage for me, but each visit is like opening a cherished book filled with memories. My heart and soul are tethered to this place. I brought my girls here, wanting them to drink from the same fountain of legacy, to imbibe the pride of lineage. To understand that knowing one's roots is both a gift and a responsibility.

As I stand here, a fly ventures into my mouth. An omen, perhaps? Nature's way of urging me to take a moment, to revel in the sensory delight of this ripe orange. To bask in the beauty of the present.

Not many have the privilege of tracing their ancestry, of connecting the dots through generations. It's a wealth I want to share. My grandmother's tales, her devotion to the Madonna here, crafted a rich tapestry of myths that I clung to as a child. Time might be relentless, but here, it feels arrested. Bombile is untouched, like a dream preserved in amber. A decade and a half since my last visit, yet nothing's changed. Or perhaps everything has, subtly, with the changing of seasons.

Less footfalls echo these streets now. But in sharing this place, its stories, with my children, it feels eternal. My hope is they too will share this tale, pass it down, and perhaps, the Rodis will once again call this home. That would be poetic, wouldn't it? To close the circle, to ensure that our roots, deep and sprawling, continue to feed generations, allowing them to reach even greater heights.