Olive - Oliva - Olivia

My parents wanted to name me Olive. An uncommon name in Norway, and family and friends put their feet down and prevented it. For several months I was just called "Vesla" (the tiny one) while the young parents tried to find another name. My maternal granddad was severely ill during this period, and when I was two months old he died of cancer. He met me once before he died, putting his hands upon my hairless head, blessing me. His name was Benjamin, and after him I was named Britt-Arnhild.

The combination of Britt and Arnhild is also a rare one, it might be no more than two other women in Norway with the same name. I am happy with it though, and have always been glad that I am not Olive.

Still, the name Olive has its own place in my heart, a very small, though valuable place. It lives in my love ov olives, and the strong, deep love of olive trees and olive hills. I met it  when I visited Olivastua last summer, and I meeting it again now while reading Dear Olivia by Mary Contini, a book from "the hills above Terracina and beyond". And I met it at Palm Sunday last year in Italy, watching thousands of people come to the church, their arms filled with olive branches.

The photo is of me, hiking the hills above Terracina last year.

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A repost from April. My days at the church meeting are too long for creative writing.