Telling a mourning is already complicated; transforming dreams, memories and coincidences into a shared path is even more. An invisible thread, the book written by Martina and Marzia Carbutti, is born like this: from a series of notes published on Facebook that, almost without notice, started to move something in others. In retracing the history of the father, the daily life of the eighties and that link that — according to Martina — continues to manifest itself in dreams, the project as a personal outlet becomes a way to speak openly of mourning, faith, psychology and all that happens “after”.
In this conversation Martina tells how those dreams have turned into a method of understanding, what it means to expose themselves so much and what remains of a father when he reads it from distance.
Have you ever wondered if those dreams were a mourning elaboration rather than a message “from outside”? How do you answer who sees everything as a psychological passage?
Yes, I asked. And I will tell you: still today, four years after Dad is gone — and despite it should now be “normality” — I dream a lot. There are times when I don’t dream and there, I admit, I worry a little: I know that it can happen that at some point those dreams fade away, and when it happens I wonder if maybe they won’t happen again. But then I start dreaming. And every time that doubt — “will be the unconscious?” — it comes back for a moment, but it vanishes immediately. Because in dreams there is always a reason, a return, a connection with reality: punctually what I dream then manifests in life. This, for me, is proof that it is not the unconscious. It’s really a form of communication, even if someone can misunderstand me or not believe me. But it’s the biggest truth I discovered after the mourning. Perhaps at first those dreams could be a loss processing — I was sad, confused — but if it was just this, it would be all over there. But I still dream of it today. I’ve read about 150: I write them because I don’t always understand the meaning, and sometimes I understand it much later. But when what I dream really happens, it becomes very clear to me that it is not the unconscious: is a gift, a form of communication.
The fact of annotating dreams on a notebook is also typical of therapeutic paths. How did you get closer to this practice?
I didn’t really start writing them for a psychological path. It was a suggestion of my mother: He told me that, making so many dreams, it would be easy to forget them. And he was right. At first I didn’t write down anything, then I started. I had already been in an analysis, but for reasons prior to mourning. I compared myself with several psychologists and, curiously, no one ever asked me to write down dreams. Only in one case did I retrace childhood episodes — which always serves — but no dreams. The real breakthrough was to write on Facebook: there I began to vent myself talking about my father, and from that sharing an invisible thread was born. It was almost “telepathic”: When I wrote, I felt like I received messages, intuitions. Even today it happens, not only when I write but also when I speak. It rarely happens to hear Dad’s voice in dreams, but when it happens it is very strong. Usually the message comes in a “telepathic” way, not through an audible voice. But those few times when the voice is very clear to me is a huge emotion. Now I no longer write my dreams to process mourning, but to understand them: to understand its meaning, why. Sometimes the answer comes a long time later.
The passage from post to book is significant. When did you realize that those thoughts could become something for others? Have you ever wondered whether to share so much was “too much”?
There was no precise moment. I wrote the posts and punctually received private messages: Many did not comment publicly, but they wrote me in private saying that they had found themselves in my words, that they had lived similar things, that they had made similar dreams. I am not the only one to dream: It happens to a lot. And that match kept coming. Then there were childhood memories in the 1980s: Barilla spots, toys, Villa Borghese, dad listening to the radio while I was playing. Many found themselves in this. So I thought that world was not just mine, that it could be useful to others. I said: “If you helped me elaborate, maybe you can help someone who reads.”.
And yes, the Romanity of Dad made many people smile: That convinced me.
If we ever wonder if it was too much? Yes, and I still wonder today. I never regret sharing, but I know there is a limit. After this second project I will stop, because I think there must always be a point where they say “I gave everything I could”. The second project involves other people I’ve known along the way, people who have supported me. It is different to share when you are alone and different when what you tell about others. Dad’s mourning opened a spiritual path that I never imagined. It has nothing to do with religion in the strict sense. He changed me in the way of seeing things: first I feared judgment, today much less. I always say: “Martì, what you care.” With respect, of course. I respect who believes and who does not believe. For me “too much” is not too much if it can help someone to see beyond, to stop a moment and reflect. It’s a way to help.
In telling your father, did you find out anything about him just writing? Something you see different today?
More than discovering, I learned to appreciate what I didn’t appreciate before. And I always say, Dad and I had clashes. I did not idealize it, indeed I have always recognized that, although with a generous and very good heart, it had its great defects but like all. He was wicked, stubborn, he was so direct sometimes to hardness but when he did it he was right. In the house we called it “The witch” just for this. Writing, I understand how much I miss her protection. The things that annoyed me before — “make me a call when you arrive”, “nine, I come to take you”, “be careful” — today I see them with completely different eyes. I’d do it with a son today. These are things you only understand when you lose them or when you become a parent. I don’t have children, so I just realized it by writing.
Have you ever doubted this “invisible thread”?
Doubt? No, not really. Also because it’s a continuous one, and it’s not something I’m looking for. Many ask me: “But isn’t that you’re looking for them?” No. And then I understand: “That’s why this happened, that’s why I met that person.”.
Perhaps at first I could have doubted, thinking it was a way to stay better after mourning. But it’s not like this: I’m not looking for anything, and everything comes anyway. My friend told me something real. according to her this invisible thread has always been there. The mourning did not create it, it only made it visible. It’s like there was a tent first and now it’s taken away. I think that we have always met people and experiences linked by threads that we do not see.
And if a reader told you: “I don’t feel this thread?”?
I’d tell him I totally respect him. I don’t want to convince anyone. I tell my truth, which can be a point for others, but I do not claim that it becomes the truth of someone else. I happen to have someone told me not to believe it. That’s great. Maybe the truth of that person is different and better suited to him. I like to believe in what I live, and I like it when someone tells me: “Do you know that thinking about your words I connected something that happened to me too?” That’s where an exchange is created.
The article What remains of the bond with those who are gone: Martina Carbutti and his Invisible Wire comes from IlNewyorkese.
