The burning embers of selfishness: volunteering as an antidote to indifference

A story of volunteering in the parish, amidst hostile supermarkets and blazing grills.

I struggle to understand. Or perhaps, more honestly, I refuse to consider normal what isn't normal.

There are days when the disconnection from reality sticks to me like a physical thing, heavy as lead on the shoulders. I walk, I observe the minute details of ordinary life, I read the news, and I find myself helpless in the face of a collective blindness that seems irreversible. I seriously ask myself, on the worst nights: how can they not notice? How can they keep going, shrugging their shoulders, perfectly accustomed to the absurd? What if I'm the one who's wrong?

The shortsightedness of the trolley and the rubble of the world

The disproportion makes my head spin. Yes they burn trillions of dollars to power colossal servers, to train machines that churn out synthetic illusions and simulate conversations, while entire populations scrape the bottom of empty bowls. At the helm of nations sit old people corrupt to the core, frightened by their own demise, playing dice with other people's blood. This alone would be enough to spark a moral rebellion in me.

But the poison doesn't stay in the control rooms. It trickles down, drop by drop, right down to the smallest gestures.

It happens to me in a random supermarket aisle: a cart stuck askew, abandoned by someone staring at their phone with a glassy gaze. I ask «Excuse me, please?», in a calm tone. I don't expect a bow; a step back or an "excuse me" would be enough. Instead, I get a stern look, a snarky response, as if I'd offended someone by asking for a bit of shared space. And for the rest of the shopping, I carry with me an annoyance that isn't even anger. It's more like sadness.

Or at the condominium recycling center, where someone dumps their trash in the private bins. I approach and ask for an explanation, still convinced that there's a shared boundary between what's yours, what's mine, and what's everyone else's. He comes at me, sharp, with the clenched jaw of a self-styled bully: «Mind your own business».

In that growl there is individualism in its terminal stage. The other is no longer a peer, he is an obstacle to be removed or a target to be intimidated. And I return home feeling like I'm the last one left who believes in a rule no one remembers anymore.

Volunteering in the parish: The ember trench at the Ranch

Then, fortunately, reality still has antibodies.

Yesterday at Noventa Padovana it has begun Folpo Festival. Unfortunately, it started without me. But starting tonight, for five days, my place will be behind the grills of the Ranch, our parish's historic tavern. If I've done my math correctly, it's mine. twenty-fourth time: I'm celebrating next year! When I arrived, I was "Elisa's boyfriend," now just ask about Ricky.

No screens, no algorithms, no parlor lectures. Just relentless heat, smoke clinging to clothes and skin until it makes your eyes water, sizzling meat, a steady stream of hot polenta. For days afterward, I carry that smell with me: I find it in my beard, in my jacket, in the pillows.

There are dozens of us in there. Different ages, different professions, opposing political views, edgy personalities. People accustomed to making decisions and not backing down an inch. There's the manager, the doctor, the retiree, the policeman, the housewife, the student, the worker, the middle school kid. As soon as they tie on their aprons, the ego takes a step back and vanishes in the kitchen fumes. You make yourself available to something bigger than yourself: the community, the activities for the kids, the life of our town. We toil together, we sweat together, we wear our backs out for hours on the wooden planks. And nobody gets a cent.

The smoke that puts things right

Inside, the cynicism of the world remains outside the door. If someone drops a pan, four more arms spring up to hold it. If the order explodes and the line presses, we look each other in the eye, grit our teeth, and redouble our pace, elbow to elbow.

At the Ranch, no one tells a buddy to mind his own business. The other's effort immediately becomes yours, and I, who outside have difficulty trusting, here I trust without thinking.

Volunteering in the parish doesn't straighten out geopolitics by flipping pork chops with a pair of tongs. I know. And yet, amidst that smoke, my fundamentals are reset. I remember that a different human posture is still possible: tangible like red-hot iron, solid like crackling wood, real like a pat on the back at the end of a shift and a plate of tripe at 1 a.m. Tonight we start. The embers will catch fire, my arms will ache, and I'll return home late at night with the smell of grease in my beard. That's okay.

I seek beauty everywhere. And when all I see around me is rubble and sideways carts, I go to light a fire with those who still know how to build community.

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NOVENTA PARISH – BETTOLA RANCH