My name is Rosa, I’m 68 years old,
and four months ago I did something my sister called “a crazy move worthy of a twenty-year-old.”
I left my small town near Munich, where I had lived for 48 years,
and moved to a shared farm in the north of Germany.
After my husband passed away five years ago, my routine had become a gentle prison:
coffee at seven, trip to the market, afternoons in the armchair watching reruns of Un posto al sole.
One day I looked out the window and said to myself:
“Rosa, your life can’t end under a beige awning.”
So I sold the house and answered an online ad:
“Volunteers wanted for an agricultural community, room and board included.”
My son texted me: “Mom, is this a cult?”
I replied: “If it is, at least they grow organic tomatoes.”
Now I live with six young people in their twenties and thirties.
My children are angry that I sold the house, but I’m sure they’ll get over it.
After all, they never came to visit much — twice a year, maybe.
And I don’t blame them; it’s normal. They have their own lives, just like I have mine.
The young people I live with study agriculture, philosophy,
and one of them is a “spiritual tattoo artist” — whatever that means.
The first evening they welcomed me with lentil soup and a De André song played on a ukulele.
They asked me:
— “Rosa, do you meditate?”
I said:
— “No, but I talk to the zucchinis sometimes, does that count?”
At first, I felt like an antique piece of furniture in a trendy shop.
Then I realized they actually needed me —
for the preserves, for homemade bread, and to shout “Stop scrolling, let’s go dig!”
I teach them how to cook and laugh without filters,
they teach me how to use Google Maps and how to say “chill” without sounding frozen.
One afternoon they took me to a charity market.
They said: “Rosa, come on, sell your jams.”
I made a sign: “Resilience Jams.”
An influencer tasted them, tagged me,
and now I have an Instagram account with 40,000 followers who call me Signora Rosa.
I pay my share of expenses, join the meetings,
and sometimes I leave an apple pie on the table “for spiritual emergencies.”
People ask if I miss my old house.
I say no.
Because there, I only had walls —
but here, I have dirt under my nails and people who call me by my name.
(Signora Rosa)~