I have this idea that I can enter the mind of my grandmother, dead now 30 years or so, and start to tell her story, a remarkable story to be sure and one I want people to read. But, of course, in order to tell her story I have to become her in a way, and then dredge up memory from almost a century ago! It looks to me as though I will do a lot of inventing once I get inside her head because her childhood at the beginning of the 20th century has not been documented in any way; the good news is that I know her really well, so it will be an adventure (one of her favorite words) to spin out the narrative of her young life. When she chose to deny herself medical intervention after a burn accident at the age of 89, she talked of going on an "adventure" to reunite with her friends and loved ones long gone. She had such a brave and surprising life, outliving almost everyone who was important to her even though she was in no way a robust and hearty human being. At least in body... But in mind - oh yes!
Remembering ... memoir ... recalling ... re-envisioning ... a lot of writers seem to be doing that these days, and they make their stories of the past look vivid and true, as though they had memories that were crisp and picture perfect. Truth is no one has such a memory. I have read The Long Goodbye, Let's Take the Long Road Home, Gordimer's Fierce Attachments, and now I am starting H is for Hawk -- all books written by women. I am driven to understand the nature of remembering. When I was in Florence, I walked the narrow funky streets and when I smelled the burnt espresso and side-stepped the dog poop on the sidewalk, I immediately remembered being a young girl walking those streets over 50 years ago. For a split moment I felt as though I were that young and idealistic girl. And then, boom, something else happened. I saw a shop window filled with expensive fancy men's shoes and just wanted to laugh out loud at the Italian men's vanity. Or I decided to enter a leather store to wander amongst the fancy purses and wallets... On my last day in Florence, I revisited my favorite trattoria and I had boiled chicken with salsa verde, and that green sauce rich with oil, parsley, garlic, capers, and such, took me back to living in the old stone house on the hill when I was eleven and being served by our joyful young housekeeper Elda, whose expertise in the kitchen was remarkable for someone untrained from the countryside. Can we use those fleeting little moments of smell and sight and touch and taste and transform them into story?
What are the gateways in our memory to the stories? What do they look like?
As my grandmother got older and older and she and I kept on talking to each other, it seemed her handle on the far past was pretty sharp. And she loved returning there in her mind to relay old stories of family and place. It was comforting in a world that had changed so much that she had begun to fear it. Born before the automobile and airplane and of course the computer, she remarked frequently that the speed and dark violence of the 70s and 80s disturbed her greatly. It was becoming a world that it was harder and harder to navigate in her mind, the only faculty she could use since she had lost her sight in her early eighties to macular degeneration. If I had know then that I would feel driven to write her story, I am sure I would have tried to record her telling her stories... Now I will simply have to take myself to another place and conjure what was in her mind.
Why tell her story? Because she saved my life, that's why. She took me under her gentle wing and the age of about five and loved me categorically. I was the daughter she never had, after all. My mother usually needed me to be somewhere else, and it was to grandmother's house I often went. She taught me table manners, generosity, love of the old, cribbage and dominoes, she opened up music and books to me, modeled bravery and courage, and read stories to me late at night so I wouldn't be afraid in the dark. She showed me that a life of balance was possible, that I was a lovable person and didn't need to abuse my body in order to forget being abandoned. I was a little sponge soaking up her heartful-ness and compassion. She was a woman who never knew her own mother, was physically deformed and also frail, and yet with a personality larger than most and a heart like a Buddha. When she died and I was in my forties, teetering on the edge of a failed marriage, I felt abandoned and terrified I wouldn't be able to manage my life and take care of what was in front of me. And some months later, as I sat on the beach looking out at the Pacific Ocean I had a revelation of sorts that she was in fact alive and vibrant inside of me. Yes, she was. So I would be alright after all...
Soon I will get to work on this new writing project of mine, the rich and long story of Lavinia's life. I will be talking to her in my mind before I begin and will do a lot of scribbling, and hopefully will not worry about where all the memory gates are. I'll follow my nose, my eyes, and my ears back ... to Charleston, South Carolina, in 1900 ... and then sit down in her house on Hasell Street and just wait to see what transpires. It should be a great adventure.
My Elephant Friends
Amboseli elephants
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Sunday, April 19, 2015
Just Visiting ... giving up the old story
There was a time when I thought I would retire in the golden Tuscan countryside and morph into a modern day Maggie Smith, holding court in a beautiful stone villa with olive trees outside and a lovely "contadina" to fend for me and my house. Nice picture. I would have all the comforts of home, including whatever cats were present in my family at the time, my books, my writing devices, and perhaps a piano. I would spend my days writing and reading and/or visiting some beautiful church to look at paintings and frescoes, I would write lengthy reflective letters home to show my clan that life was just perfect, and I would continue to practice the art of cooking which meant getting the freshest, most beautiful food on the table. I don't know when this Ivory Merchant version of my life first started to present itself in my mind, but I do know that it has been with me a long time. This Italian culture won me over when I was 12 years old, and the place had always felt like a home ground for me... I have been returning again and again to nudge this story just a little bit more.
I discovered something interesting this time around in Florence, or perhaps the discovery came as I sat on my Air France flight from Paris to New York and I looked back on the previous 17 days. Turns out I don't want to become another comfortably off expatriated American woman in Italy... What I love about the Italians, their graceful manners, their exquisite food, their full of life energy, their art. history and their wine is not enough to hold me there indefinitely. There are other issues about life here: the bureaucracy, the political corruption, and a lot of small things like too much dog poop on the streets, horribly narrow sidewalks, cigarette smoking everywhere it seems, a layer of male chauvinism that still prevails, insane drivers, the unsalted bread, a lot of noise, and the suggestion of a narcissistic life style. During the two weeks in my apartment on the Oltrarno I had a chance to notice a lot about the container I was moving through and note my responses to things like cigarette smoke and noise and a more aggressive manner on the street than I was used to. Walking into the butcher shop and conversing about how to roast my little chicken was a delight, and I loved that Italian women ALWAYS had conversations about what they were buying and how it was going to be prepared and for whom. It brought people's stories out into the public domain. The cheese shop didn't have quite the sense of hospitality but things were still very cordial. The general grocery shop lady was very cheery until I deigned to touch one of the little loaves of bread, having forgotten the sacred "no touch" rule in grocery stores. There was a lack of cordiality, however, in the various churches and museums where I traipsed to look at art, and at some of the trattorias that hadn't figured out they were in fact there to serve the public. Those places were rare, but in central Florence especially there was indifference and brusque treatment when sitting down to table that surprised me. Happily I never took it personally. Times were changing, I realized, and not every single Florentine was committed to be gracious to the city's visitors.
I don't think the issue lies with the surface imperfections I just talked about, however. I believe my new view has everything to do with being seventy years old and more vulnerable, a person not always steady on her feet who doesn't just forge ahead so doggedly anymore. My mind is alive and brimming with questions and appreciations of culture and history, and my body is quietly telling me to slow down and do less. And with that vulnerability comes the belief that living in my old home town of San Francisco is the right and proper choice. Certainly an easier choice than owning property in the Tuscan countryside... This is the place whose landscape I know better than any other, whose sidewalks are not narrow and perilous for touchy feet like mine, where dog poop is generally cleaned up, and where I don't have to dart here and there to avoid smokers. And of course San Francisco is an international city. I need this multicultural landscape, I guess, because I have been voyaging for so long, and want to continue to breathe in new sounds, and smells, and ideas.
There is another reason that transforming myself into an old expat is not such a good idea, and that's my family. I love this family. I had a chance to spend the day with one of the stars in the family yesterday on my passage through New York and back to California (yes, I am still traveling). Her name is Sutton Howard and she is my youngest daughter's oldest child who is in her first year in college in the New York area. She is 18, tall, and beautiful, and with an exuberance for life that is infectious. She is also in love. To spend time around those who are in love is to be washed in a bath of smiles and happiness. We walked and shopped and hung out in a park on a warm spring afternoon, and I felt gratitude, especially as I looked into the eyes of the young man who seems to be smitten with her. Gratitude that I struggled long ago as a young thing myself to bring life into the world even when I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Gratitude that this young life taught me something about becoming a mother and about family. I have two beautiful daughters, one who will become 50 this year, and who walks a path of real righteousness both in her spiritual calling and in her dedication to service and to kindness to all she meets. She is heroic in her life. As is daughter #2 who has blossomed into a magnificent mother and wife and has shown courage, heart, and wonderful humor as she grows. These girls and those they brought into the world are my tribe, and if I were to become a modern day Maggie Smith in Italy I wouldn't have all the many joyous, profound times I have now with these young people. It just wouldn't be possible.
So I return to my hometown with an understanding that while Italy is deeply etched into my heart, I will not become a citizen there, will not try to decipher the arcane rules and put up with the chaos so I can have this make believe expatriate life. Instead I will return every once in a while and rent a small apartment and slip into the operatic daily life for just a time. And it will be enough just as it is. That's really it, isn't it ? -- that great moment when we can say to ourselves and the universe: my life, myself, is just fine the way it is. I am complete. "Basta," the Italians would say: it is enough.
I discovered something interesting this time around in Florence, or perhaps the discovery came as I sat on my Air France flight from Paris to New York and I looked back on the previous 17 days. Turns out I don't want to become another comfortably off expatriated American woman in Italy... What I love about the Italians, their graceful manners, their exquisite food, their full of life energy, their art. history and their wine is not enough to hold me there indefinitely. There are other issues about life here: the bureaucracy, the political corruption, and a lot of small things like too much dog poop on the streets, horribly narrow sidewalks, cigarette smoking everywhere it seems, a layer of male chauvinism that still prevails, insane drivers, the unsalted bread, a lot of noise, and the suggestion of a narcissistic life style. During the two weeks in my apartment on the Oltrarno I had a chance to notice a lot about the container I was moving through and note my responses to things like cigarette smoke and noise and a more aggressive manner on the street than I was used to. Walking into the butcher shop and conversing about how to roast my little chicken was a delight, and I loved that Italian women ALWAYS had conversations about what they were buying and how it was going to be prepared and for whom. It brought people's stories out into the public domain. The cheese shop didn't have quite the sense of hospitality but things were still very cordial. The general grocery shop lady was very cheery until I deigned to touch one of the little loaves of bread, having forgotten the sacred "no touch" rule in grocery stores. There was a lack of cordiality, however, in the various churches and museums where I traipsed to look at art, and at some of the trattorias that hadn't figured out they were in fact there to serve the public. Those places were rare, but in central Florence especially there was indifference and brusque treatment when sitting down to table that surprised me. Happily I never took it personally. Times were changing, I realized, and not every single Florentine was committed to be gracious to the city's visitors.
I don't think the issue lies with the surface imperfections I just talked about, however. I believe my new view has everything to do with being seventy years old and more vulnerable, a person not always steady on her feet who doesn't just forge ahead so doggedly anymore. My mind is alive and brimming with questions and appreciations of culture and history, and my body is quietly telling me to slow down and do less. And with that vulnerability comes the belief that living in my old home town of San Francisco is the right and proper choice. Certainly an easier choice than owning property in the Tuscan countryside... This is the place whose landscape I know better than any other, whose sidewalks are not narrow and perilous for touchy feet like mine, where dog poop is generally cleaned up, and where I don't have to dart here and there to avoid smokers. And of course San Francisco is an international city. I need this multicultural landscape, I guess, because I have been voyaging for so long, and want to continue to breathe in new sounds, and smells, and ideas.
There is another reason that transforming myself into an old expat is not such a good idea, and that's my family. I love this family. I had a chance to spend the day with one of the stars in the family yesterday on my passage through New York and back to California (yes, I am still traveling). Her name is Sutton Howard and she is my youngest daughter's oldest child who is in her first year in college in the New York area. She is 18, tall, and beautiful, and with an exuberance for life that is infectious. She is also in love. To spend time around those who are in love is to be washed in a bath of smiles and happiness. We walked and shopped and hung out in a park on a warm spring afternoon, and I felt gratitude, especially as I looked into the eyes of the young man who seems to be smitten with her. Gratitude that I struggled long ago as a young thing myself to bring life into the world even when I didn't know what the hell I was doing. Gratitude that this young life taught me something about becoming a mother and about family. I have two beautiful daughters, one who will become 50 this year, and who walks a path of real righteousness both in her spiritual calling and in her dedication to service and to kindness to all she meets. She is heroic in her life. As is daughter #2 who has blossomed into a magnificent mother and wife and has shown courage, heart, and wonderful humor as she grows. These girls and those they brought into the world are my tribe, and if I were to become a modern day Maggie Smith in Italy I wouldn't have all the many joyous, profound times I have now with these young people. It just wouldn't be possible.
So I return to my hometown with an understanding that while Italy is deeply etched into my heart, I will not become a citizen there, will not try to decipher the arcane rules and put up with the chaos so I can have this make believe expatriate life. Instead I will return every once in a while and rent a small apartment and slip into the operatic daily life for just a time. And it will be enough just as it is. That's really it, isn't it ? -- that great moment when we can say to ourselves and the universe: my life, myself, is just fine the way it is. I am complete. "Basta," the Italians would say: it is enough.
Friday, April 10, 2015
What Endures and What Changes in Florence ...
It is about 5:30 on a now warm spring afternoon and outside my apartment window someone is playing a tenor saxophone, a longing refrain I cannot place, but the mere sound of it fills me up with gratitude. I have heard this music maker on other late afternoons and have been touched and warmed by the mournful sounds coming through the air...
When I decided to make this journey to Florence I - of course - had a certain plan in mind. I was going to walk the streets endlessly in order to recapture old memories from my early time here, which was in the late 50's. A very long time ago. I was sure that the sights, the smells, sounds, and all the endless overlapping voices would take me back. Of course what I've discovered is that I cannot get back to the time when I was eleven years old. It apparently is not humanly possible. So, I have been ruminating on that truth and taking in all the sensations instead. What has come to mind and the refrain I have communicated to a dear friend in a letter is the phrase: things change, and things stay the same ... The Florence I am marching through today is very different from the city I lived in when I went to Miss Barry's American School for expat children here in Florence in the fifties. For one thing, people did not have cell phone/cameras so they could take "selfies" randomly no matter where they went. Visitors instead marched the treacherous cobbled streets with their little red Baedecker guides, which at the time were the top of the line guidebooks for all European cities. I don't believe gelato stands were a dime a dozen with the huge lines spilling onto the narrow sidewalks, and I also don't remember pizza being the most sought after snack a tourist might want. The lines to get into museums were non-existent, and the prices of course were lower. The Africans hadn't discovered this city as a convenient market for street sales of everything from sunglasses to bad umbrellas... And I don't remember that there were these clever unobtrusive mimes stationed by the Uffizi to charm you with their mystery. It used to be true that cars could race through the center of the old city at will, and that now has been changed. Too many people, too many cars. There were no high end designer dress shops that offered unadulterated glamour at very steep prices, nor were there as many souvenir shops all selling the same things.
But here is the good news. There is a lot that hasn't changed: the smell of the hideously uneven cobble stone streets which reek of ancient dampness and sometimes of urine (which you somehow ignore), the bells that chime at different hours in any one of the hundreds of churches in this city, the magnificence of churches like Santa Croce and Santa Maria Novella and of course the Carmine church with its Brancacci chapel. And the old women with tattered shawls that sit by the church doors begging for money that will help them survive. The Italians have been sitting down to lunch at around 1:30 or 2:00 every day in trattorias in this city and consuming large bottles of mineral water and liters of wine, along with pasta and bland unsalted bread and some grilled meat, talking nonstop and always finishing up with a cafe. Pastry shop windows have always been works of art, with trays and trays of chocolates, fruit tarts, meringues, and various cantucci all dusted generously with sugar. And vegetable stands have always offered up the dramatic looking purple artichokes, fat white bulbs of fennel, shiny zucchini with their flowers, and the outrageously plump red tomatoes... Food has always been on display in Italy, in every town and every village for centuries, reminding you of the joys of nourishing the body and the heart. To go into a cheese shop is to have a detour into cheese heaven, but you must be patient and not be afraid to ask for a taste. This has always been so. The Ponte Vecchio ("old bridge") is the most famous of the many bridges that stretch across the Arno, and it houses countless little miniature shops that peddle gold and other precious jewelry, keeping alive a centuries old tradition. The stuff you see is fine and quite expensive, and perhaps that has not always been so, but it is a delight to enter one of these shops and sit down on a velvet upholstered chair and indulge in gazing at all the glitter. There are restaurants in this town that have been around for a very long time indeed -- they may have photos on the wall to prove it -- and they tend to serve pretty down home basic Florentine cuisine, which translates to a whole lot of meat, white beans with olive oil, crostini with chicken livers, ribollita, papa pomodoro, and the odd sautéed vegetable (usually spinach with lots of butter - the best spinach I have ever had).
So, it would seem that though I believed I was here to unearth old buried memories, I instead just came to partake of Florence's ongoing culture, the timeless pieces that draw everyone here. People from other countries come to visit to receive the graceful manners of Italians, eat the hearty and often beautiful food, drink the good earthy wine, and look at the timeless stone buildings and the extraordinary wealth of Renaissance art. These people who come now don't look as interesting to me as visitors did long ago, but that's because I've unfortunately developed some entrenched prejudices now that I am seventy years old, and one of them is about a lack of reverence or attention to the amazing historical elements we find in this city. People wander about in shorts and tennis shoes and cell phones, and they take their "selfies" in front of every possible important monument and painting, and they don't appear to me to be soaking in the richness that is right there before them. Of course, I have no way of knowing, do I? I just see what I see. But finally, it doesn't matter what I think. The important thing is that these thousands of millions of people have found their way here, and are trying to navigate through a now very complicated maze of ancient culture with little patience and perhaps an absence of curiosity. But they are here. And they may go home altered, as I went home altered in 1959... I can only hope this is possible.
Church bells just chimed again for the third time since I began, and the saxophone player sadly has retired for the evening. The golden light is falling over the expanse of ochre houses with red tile roofs and there's a certain feeling of blessing. This is my favorite time of the day in Italy ... the sinking of the sun and the slowing down of the movements of people... I will rest tonight, I hope, in the knowledge that plumbing my ancient memories is not what I needed to do here, because what presents itself to me in this present moment is rich and good enough, and it does remind me that I was very fortunate to have been a tender young girl living in this quirky, cranky old city over fifty years ago.
When I decided to make this journey to Florence I - of course - had a certain plan in mind. I was going to walk the streets endlessly in order to recapture old memories from my early time here, which was in the late 50's. A very long time ago. I was sure that the sights, the smells, sounds, and all the endless overlapping voices would take me back. Of course what I've discovered is that I cannot get back to the time when I was eleven years old. It apparently is not humanly possible. So, I have been ruminating on that truth and taking in all the sensations instead. What has come to mind and the refrain I have communicated to a dear friend in a letter is the phrase: things change, and things stay the same ... The Florence I am marching through today is very different from the city I lived in when I went to Miss Barry's American School for expat children here in Florence in the fifties. For one thing, people did not have cell phone/cameras so they could take "selfies" randomly no matter where they went. Visitors instead marched the treacherous cobbled streets with their little red Baedecker guides, which at the time were the top of the line guidebooks for all European cities. I don't believe gelato stands were a dime a dozen with the huge lines spilling onto the narrow sidewalks, and I also don't remember pizza being the most sought after snack a tourist might want. The lines to get into museums were non-existent, and the prices of course were lower. The Africans hadn't discovered this city as a convenient market for street sales of everything from sunglasses to bad umbrellas... And I don't remember that there were these clever unobtrusive mimes stationed by the Uffizi to charm you with their mystery. It used to be true that cars could race through the center of the old city at will, and that now has been changed. Too many people, too many cars. There were no high end designer dress shops that offered unadulterated glamour at very steep prices, nor were there as many souvenir shops all selling the same things.
But here is the good news. There is a lot that hasn't changed: the smell of the hideously uneven cobble stone streets which reek of ancient dampness and sometimes of urine (which you somehow ignore), the bells that chime at different hours in any one of the hundreds of churches in this city, the magnificence of churches like Santa Croce and Santa Maria Novella and of course the Carmine church with its Brancacci chapel. And the old women with tattered shawls that sit by the church doors begging for money that will help them survive. The Italians have been sitting down to lunch at around 1:30 or 2:00 every day in trattorias in this city and consuming large bottles of mineral water and liters of wine, along with pasta and bland unsalted bread and some grilled meat, talking nonstop and always finishing up with a cafe. Pastry shop windows have always been works of art, with trays and trays of chocolates, fruit tarts, meringues, and various cantucci all dusted generously with sugar. And vegetable stands have always offered up the dramatic looking purple artichokes, fat white bulbs of fennel, shiny zucchini with their flowers, and the outrageously plump red tomatoes... Food has always been on display in Italy, in every town and every village for centuries, reminding you of the joys of nourishing the body and the heart. To go into a cheese shop is to have a detour into cheese heaven, but you must be patient and not be afraid to ask for a taste. This has always been so. The Ponte Vecchio ("old bridge") is the most famous of the many bridges that stretch across the Arno, and it houses countless little miniature shops that peddle gold and other precious jewelry, keeping alive a centuries old tradition. The stuff you see is fine and quite expensive, and perhaps that has not always been so, but it is a delight to enter one of these shops and sit down on a velvet upholstered chair and indulge in gazing at all the glitter. There are restaurants in this town that have been around for a very long time indeed -- they may have photos on the wall to prove it -- and they tend to serve pretty down home basic Florentine cuisine, which translates to a whole lot of meat, white beans with olive oil, crostini with chicken livers, ribollita, papa pomodoro, and the odd sautéed vegetable (usually spinach with lots of butter - the best spinach I have ever had).
So, it would seem that though I believed I was here to unearth old buried memories, I instead just came to partake of Florence's ongoing culture, the timeless pieces that draw everyone here. People from other countries come to visit to receive the graceful manners of Italians, eat the hearty and often beautiful food, drink the good earthy wine, and look at the timeless stone buildings and the extraordinary wealth of Renaissance art. These people who come now don't look as interesting to me as visitors did long ago, but that's because I've unfortunately developed some entrenched prejudices now that I am seventy years old, and one of them is about a lack of reverence or attention to the amazing historical elements we find in this city. People wander about in shorts and tennis shoes and cell phones, and they take their "selfies" in front of every possible important monument and painting, and they don't appear to me to be soaking in the richness that is right there before them. Of course, I have no way of knowing, do I? I just see what I see. But finally, it doesn't matter what I think. The important thing is that these thousands of millions of people have found their way here, and are trying to navigate through a now very complicated maze of ancient culture with little patience and perhaps an absence of curiosity. But they are here. And they may go home altered, as I went home altered in 1959... I can only hope this is possible.
Church bells just chimed again for the third time since I began, and the saxophone player sadly has retired for the evening. The golden light is falling over the expanse of ochre houses with red tile roofs and there's a certain feeling of blessing. This is my favorite time of the day in Italy ... the sinking of the sun and the slowing down of the movements of people... I will rest tonight, I hope, in the knowledge that plumbing my ancient memories is not what I needed to do here, because what presents itself to me in this present moment is rich and good enough, and it does remind me that I was very fortunate to have been a tender young girl living in this quirky, cranky old city over fifty years ago.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Easter in Florence
It is Easter time and I am in Florence, along with way too many visitors from places unknown. Tonight I had dinner at a local trattoria near my little rented apartment and as I walked across the Piazza del Carmine, I saw that the great church at one end was in fact open. I have never entered this stark looking church, to be sure, but rather have returned time and time again to this place to see Massaccio's stunning frescoes in the little chapel off to the side called the Brancacci Chapel. Tonight the square was pitch dark but there were lights close to the church and it appeared to be open for business. Since my very early years when I lived in Italy I have always been drawn to entering the churches here, and so I went. It was Good Friday, after all, and who knows what was about to happen.
After entering through spartan looking wooden doors, I entered the church which was lit and showing off its painted little chapels on the sides and felt ready for business. Such a contrast. Several women sat in the wooden pews and I joined them up at the front three rows back. Since the time I was young and marched through churches it was my perception that the women were the main inhabitants of churches here... A priest in white robes was talking to a woman up behind the altar, but I couldn't tell what they were saying. I sat and breathed and waited. More women came. More lights were ignited and I knew a service was about to happen. A large Christ on the crucifix was laying on the ground on the steps that let up to the altar, Yes, this was the day he died... Eventually the larger front doors of the church sprung open and a whole procession of people paraded in, led by a priest holding another crucifix, and everyone else holding small candles. It was quite beautiful. I stood up from my seat and moved to the side so I could see the whole procession...
I have watched these kind of processions a lot in my life and now I find them infinitely more interesting than I did back then. I guess it's because I inhabit the spiritual realm now in my own way, and I know the comfort of ritual. We are all trying to find our place in the larger picture, and while I used to denigrate the Catholic religion for its dogmatism and greed, I now sit there and receive it with gratitude and appreciation. Or is it compassion for those on the challenging path of awareness? What I was missing tonight was the pungent smell of burning candles everywhere which I associate with all the ancient churches I've walked into in Italy. But that's o.k. Because what I saw was a tender human drama unfolding quietly before my eyes on a chilly April night, as people mouthed prayers to the Virgin Mary in soft rippling voices. I bowed my own head but didn't say the words because I didn't know them. But, in a way, I think I did know them... They were words asking for comfort from Mary, supposed mother of Jesus, comfort and peace and wellbeing for us all. And how can you argue with that?
In the end, it doesn't matter that I am not Christian and believing in God and Jesus, because the vision is larger than any one religion: it is about simple peace, kindness, oneness, and wellbeing. The Dalai Lama once said that all religions were driven by the same human need or vision and they just happen to look different. Of course.
When I had had enough of the soft voices praying to the Virgin, I left the Carmine church with my little portion of leftovers from dinner, and I walked away into the dark night, realizing I didn't feel cold anymore. I had communion with others I would never know and that carried me as I walked away.
After entering through spartan looking wooden doors, I entered the church which was lit and showing off its painted little chapels on the sides and felt ready for business. Such a contrast. Several women sat in the wooden pews and I joined them up at the front three rows back. Since the time I was young and marched through churches it was my perception that the women were the main inhabitants of churches here... A priest in white robes was talking to a woman up behind the altar, but I couldn't tell what they were saying. I sat and breathed and waited. More women came. More lights were ignited and I knew a service was about to happen. A large Christ on the crucifix was laying on the ground on the steps that let up to the altar, Yes, this was the day he died... Eventually the larger front doors of the church sprung open and a whole procession of people paraded in, led by a priest holding another crucifix, and everyone else holding small candles. It was quite beautiful. I stood up from my seat and moved to the side so I could see the whole procession...
I have watched these kind of processions a lot in my life and now I find them infinitely more interesting than I did back then. I guess it's because I inhabit the spiritual realm now in my own way, and I know the comfort of ritual. We are all trying to find our place in the larger picture, and while I used to denigrate the Catholic religion for its dogmatism and greed, I now sit there and receive it with gratitude and appreciation. Or is it compassion for those on the challenging path of awareness? What I was missing tonight was the pungent smell of burning candles everywhere which I associate with all the ancient churches I've walked into in Italy. But that's o.k. Because what I saw was a tender human drama unfolding quietly before my eyes on a chilly April night, as people mouthed prayers to the Virgin Mary in soft rippling voices. I bowed my own head but didn't say the words because I didn't know them. But, in a way, I think I did know them... They were words asking for comfort from Mary, supposed mother of Jesus, comfort and peace and wellbeing for us all. And how can you argue with that?
In the end, it doesn't matter that I am not Christian and believing in God and Jesus, because the vision is larger than any one religion: it is about simple peace, kindness, oneness, and wellbeing. The Dalai Lama once said that all religions were driven by the same human need or vision and they just happen to look different. Of course.
When I had had enough of the soft voices praying to the Virgin, I left the Carmine church with my little portion of leftovers from dinner, and I walked away into the dark night, realizing I didn't feel cold anymore. I had communion with others I would never know and that carried me as I walked away.
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