Thoughts and Experiences of Settimana Santa

Palm Sunday filled with olive branches from members’ groves in a procession with tambourine, guitar, and a man’s sandpaper voice.

            “Dio, Dio, perché mi hai abandonato?”

Watching the Passion in a new way and feeling the pitiful humanity of Judas, Peter, John, and even Caiphas.

Feet washing of 12 young boys (I hope they understand) and a candlelight procession around the Duomo.

Being excited and challenged by the news that Papa Francesco washed a Muslim female prisoner’s feet.

Learning the thoughtful, liturgical structure of cathedrals and understanding the Word through every intentional and interconnected detail.

Wondering if Christ had a long walk with lots of time to think and pray on the path from hell to the light of day as I ascend a spiral staircase from the countryside into the city.

Hearing the words to trust in the folly of love and not to avoid conflict like Pilate and not to reject Christ’s weakness as Peter did.

Hiking to La Rocca and reading the Crucifixion at the top. Wearing crowns of flowers instead of thorns---and thankful for that.

Walking la Via Crucis with the Orvietani and getting close as we try to keep one another’s candles lit 

despite the blowing wind. Human distractions like a screeching speaker limiting us from fully understanding and focusing on the steps that Jesus took from condemnation to the tomb.

Giving some Italian children the new experience of Easter Egg hunting at our monastery

A midnight vigil with a small bonfire in the Duomo awaiting the Resurrection ---but much like the disciples I couldn’t stay awake. Luckily I know what comes after the wait… this time.

Breaking bread and getting to share communion for the first time in over a month in our own chapel and worshipping together in English and Italian.

Seeing the miraculous weather-report-defying sunlight beam on the altar and feeling equal warmth as we pass the “pace” and share Buona Pasqua kisses among my fellow choir members after a successful Easter service.

Finding out about the death of a friend from school and feeling more tangibly the death and life involved on this day of Resurrection. May our thoughts and prayers go out to our loved ones of Monica DeMello.

Hiking to the Cappuccini Monastery for a Pasquetta Picnic and getting a breath of much-needed freshness of air and spirit.

Sara, the flower queen.

From the Golden Legend: Exaltation of the Cross

“It should be noted that before Christ’s passion the wood of the cross was a cheap wood, because crosses used for crucifixions were made of cheap wood. It was an unfruitful wood, because no matter how many such trees were planted on the mount of Calvary, the wood gave no fruit. It was an ignoble wood, because it was used for the execution of criminals; a wood of darkness, because it was dark and without any beauty; a wood of death, because on it men were put to death; a malodorous wood, because it was planted among cadavers.

            After Christ’s passion, however, this wood was exalted in many ways. Its cheapness passed into preciousness, so Saint Andrew the apostle exclaimed: ‘Hail, precious cross!’ Its unfruitfulness gave way to fertility, as in the Song of Solomon. . . What had been ignoble became sublime, as Augustine says: ‘The cross, which was the gibbet of criminals, has made its way to the foreheads of the emperors.’”

Eccomi, Toscana!

Caution: this is a long update, but these stories of this weekend are too good to shorten.

This trip started with a bus strike and a man in a café who sounded like he swallowed a small amphibian, built to a Shakespearean mid-climax (except not tragic…. just wonderful and mind-blowing), and ended with running to the train station for a train that did not exist.

For a story that seems full of pitfalls, they were actually all very minor and easily recovered. I’ll spare the anxiety to say that we were picked up at the Terontola station to be driven up the hill to the city of Cortona by our incredible hotel manager, Sergio. We jammed out to some Phil Collins on his favorite Miami Vice cd on the way back, and in all of our minds Sergio was belting out when it got to the swelling drum part. And there was a train that came an hour and a half after we arrived to the train station, so we were always in fine shape.

After Sergio gave us a little car tour of the town and showed us the house where Under the Tuscan Sun was filmed, we got to the adorable Hotel Sabrina and climbed to our top floor family suite where Katherine, Kristine, Sara and I had a minor freak out moment at our view and the sweet a deal that we had.

We then took on the 3 mile hike to the Eremo De Le Celle which is a hermitage/monastery founded by St. Francis that is tucked away in the woods of Tuscany. We took several wrongs turns along the way only to be helped by a kind runner who looked fabulous and was talking on the phone the whole time. Darn Italians. We pilgrims arrived at our destination, which must be the real life version of Rivendell.

I have never felt so at peace. The sound of rushing water, the request for silence in the whole area, the effect of being in such contact to nature… I would definitely join this order if I were a man. We ended up joining some of the monks for a mid-day prayer for the Stations of the Cross and one very old man with a cane painfully knelt down every time. Feeling the atmosphere, praying with our fratelli, realizing how much of their lives these men have dedicated to worshipping the Lord, we were already filled with emotion. The final straw on the camel’s back was when a sweet young 30’s friar stopped us and asked where we were from and then said, “I have something for you!” We expected pamphlets or something involving the Stations of the Cross, but he came to us with 4 cd’s of his band and asked us to find him on facebook (Their band name is Janua Coeli… check them out). He then said the most sincere “God bless you” I have ever felt and disappeared into the back. We all stepped out of the chapel into the little courtyard and all burst into tears. We assume he was touched to know that 4 young people would hike all the way out there and go through the whole stations of the cross with them without popping out like tourists, but if only they knew how much they and this place touched us.

Here is a quote from the paper inside another little chapel where there was a little cell where St. Francis had actually slept in and prayed in:

“Many come here to discover spiritual benefit which St. Francis bequeathed to all who seek with pure and sincere heart. Probably, you many also recover something… bow down humbly and PRAY!”

It was actually in caps. So I did just that. 

We then hiked a little into the woods, read Isaiah 55, and then unwillingly left this heaven on earth, feeling more peaceful and restful than we have ever felt.

That night we had gelato from a place called Snoopy’s which was way up there in the quality-of-gelato-scale. My first combo was strawberry and crema (an orange and egg combo) and the next was pistachio, coconut, and fior di latte. Rocked. My. World. The feast continued when we got dinner at a local favorite called Dardano’s, which was already awesome because they were playing one of my favorite musical artists, Jamie Cullum. I got Tuscan wine, pasta con cinghiale (wild boar… I had to get it after seeing all the taxidermy wild boar heads on many of the streets in Orvieto), and delicious stewed Tuscan white beans. Treat Yo Self, 2013.

The next day held just as many wonders. We got breakfast at this pastry shop where Sergio paid for our cappuccinos and pastries (you love Sergio too now, don’tcha?) and then visited the Church of Saint Francis. I’m not sure of his actual connection to this church, but they had relics of his tunic, a pillow, and a New Testament that he used. The church also had a reliquary that claimed to house a piece of the cross. But despite being a pretty big deal, the ceiling was made of rugged logs instead of golden angel babies, in true Francesco-swag.

We then walked up tons of VERY steep streets (how do these people do it every day?) to arrive at the Chiesa di San Margherita and the Fortress seated at the top of the city. We took a random elevator up to the fortress and found some open doors and explored the inside. We were a little confused by the fact that we were the only people there, but we kept opening doors and ended up outside at the top tower of the fortress… the highest point in Cortona. We only learned when we tried to go to a bathroom at the bottom that we weren’t supposed to be in that area at all…. Whoops. But some of the men apparently working on one area saw us and didn’t really stop us, so we have no regrets.

We also popped in to a convent for an impromptu midday prayer where the nuns sang some breathy, beautiful prayers. If I had a euro for the number of masses and random religious services I’ve been to and will go to here in Italy, I would be in possession of a lot of gelato.

After basking in the sun for a bit, we left dear Cortona to hop on the train to Castiglione del Lago where we would have some seafood, which is pretty rare for us so far. It was a 20-minute walk or so from the station to the lake but dipping my toes in the water was well worth it. I got pasta with homemade egg noodles and 4 types of seafood from the lake and some delicious grilled vegetables. I wish I could have had more time in this cute little lake town.

A perfectly restful yet adventurous weekend with new friends.

Basta. Alla prossima.

Disegno

Before:

(Tyler did not keep the small cartoon of me on top of his structure)

After:

 (Our exhibition with new Italian friends and families!)

After a grueling month of drawing, looking, drawing, erasing/destroying, recomposing, drawing, washing hands, getting dirty again, conté still being found in my ears, we did it! It rained an unfortunate amount which meant I only got one full day to draw on site for my final project, but here she blows! I was offered money while drawing by a man who I think felt embarrassed when I told him I was not a beggar or street artist but rather a student working on a project. An old man also tried to talk to me in Italian and all I could guess at what he was saying was that his house was just around the corner (possibly to draw) and it was maybe his birthday?

And can I just say, how cool is the ceiling of our studio in our new monastery?

St. Patrick's Well

“We used to be told in the nursery that if a man were to bore a hole through the center of the earth and climb continually down and down, there would come a moment at the centre when he would seem to be climbing up and up. I do not know whether this is true.  . . If I do not know what this reversal or inversion feels like, it is because I have never been there.  . . We cannot follow St. Francis to that final spiritual overturn in which complete humiliation becomes complete holiness or happiness, because we have never been there.”

G.K. CHESTERTON

Such a great St. Patrick’s Day (even though I learned that nobody really cares about it in Orvieto). I spent it at mass at San Giovanni where I practiced with the choir afterwards for the upcoming Easter service. One of the men in the choir is my very own Andrea Boccelli. He also sang in a concert that we attended Saturday night in the Duomo which was in the chapel with some very famous frescoes. What is my life? 

After grabbing a bite to each from the bread shop by the post office, I descended into il Pozzo di San Patrizio  (St. Patrick’s Well) which is quite the architectural fete. The well was built in the 16^th century for water access in the event of a siege, and was built large enough to bring mules down the stairs to carry the water up. It has a double helix staircase so you can go down and come up without retracing your steps. It felt like the closest thing I would experience to what GK Chesterton was describing… descending and coming up differently than we came down.

I also found the least Italian thing in Orvieto: a little pub near our monastery that has a little Viking as their logo/mascot. They had burgers and hot dogs (for when I break under pressure of homesickness) and are one of the few places that serve Guinness. It felt like a cave in the area we all squished into and there were clip art-esque murals of barrels and steins.

We finished the night bundled in the sala of our Monastery (which is still without heat unfortunately) watching Fantastic Mr. Fox. I couldn’t ask for more.

This Just In

In other news, we have a new pope! I was slaving away drawing in the studio when I heard the bells ringing in the churches. THE WHITE SMOKE HAD APPEARED. We rushed over to Locanda del Lupo for dinner but also to watch the tv and wait for the appearance and announcement of the new pope. We waited on the edges of our seats, watching the curtains flutter of the window we were just looking up at a week ago in the piazza in Rome where thousands of people now stood. Papa Francesco stepped out as if frozen and totally human despite now being one of the largest worldwide leaders. His humble request that it be more important for the people pray for him instead of him praying for the people will hopefully be a pattern of things to come for his term and for the church. He may be the Pope, but he still needs people and prayers just as much as the people need him.

Also, I am now living in a newly refurbished 13^th century monastery! Sadly, no monks or nuns live on the premises, but sometimes I can feel the presence of the people who have lived here before me. I might also be feeling presences that aren’t exactly tangible because the building itself seems to be alive. Not all the fix-upping was quite finished when we moved in after arriving from Rome, and the first days we had absolutely no heat. Then we lived in a tropical sauna of which the building itself was (and still sometimes) sweating. There are still things to be done, but it is so nice to finally be able to nest---although we aren’t allowed to hang or put anything up on the walls because they won’t withstand it. The only thing the monastery is missing that won’t be put in place by electricians is a pet cat.

Now for the next week I’ll be on the ground in the street covered in charcoal drawing Orvieto. Alla prossima. 

Rome Antics

LETTERS TO ROME:

A city that is equal parts blood and water. A light laboratory. Whose ruins and green cracking bronze statues are indistinguishably growing up from the ground or decaying into it. Whose mosaic tiles and very uneven cobblestone streets I have been a topographer. Rome, an urban interior whose streets and inter-building spaces feel more like a society of rooms. Some buildings reliant upon the other, and some built by Michelangelo in self-sufficient isolation. Architecture out of bodies, light, and air. A hole in the Pantheon that lets the rain slowly descend into the center of the temple. The sound of water in constant motion.  Vivid nowness and play with veneration. A makeshift empire and the center of the Christian faith that will one day be replaced by a greater kingdom and fade in the light of a greater ruler.

A city that "has to be got." (Robert Hughes)

To the small commuter towns on the way to Rome:

            I hope you are glad to hear that someone is still asking what lies within you, but I am sorry that very few care to be acquainted with you. Only the meticulous scholars know who your patron saints are or what makes you interesting. Ravaged by war and unable to fully recover, I know you have just as much beautiful vulnerability and past as Rome does, Attigliano.  Maybe I will learn one day. 

To the Garden of Livia:

            I know you were meant to be private and underground, but I am thankful to share in your perpetual bloom. More wild than cultivated, I thank you for being more than a beautiful space to feed an idle mind. I hope to be just like the ideal Roman house with a garden at its core

---according to Virgil vineyards are best planted in rows so that there is space to grow and spread their branches.

To the Sculptures in the National Museum:

           How does a low relief hold so much chaos and anxiety?

           How do I make my ears like theirs as the darkest deepest caverns of the head? How do I make myself like the artist forms the busts so that the light travels down such burrows to settle in for good?

           How is it possible that I can see and feel the sighs of a row of unpronounced and unexcited women’s faces of stone?

           Why did statue have be on loan so that only a video could show me how the eyebrows join together as scars on the exhausted boxer’s face?

            Must I also be cast and gilded in gold in order to become holy? Or is there a holiness that is more like the freshly washed, flapping white shirts drying on the Orvietani’s balconies?

           Why did one of the only festival dates gleaned from a Roman calendar exhibit have to be April 1^st when the women would pray to Fortuna Virile asking to hide the imperfections of their bodies to their own men? Is it to prove that we are in the same place, only pleading to different gods or coping in different ways?

To the beggar prostrate in the puddle mucked cobblestones with palms pressed:

           Do you know that Caravaggio has used your face as the Virgin Mary, the travelling pilgrim, the tax collector witnessing a man’s calling, and the naked villains coming to assassinate Matthew? And does that give you hope? Or do you even know what lies inside the chiesa that only receives the contact of your knees on its outer grounds? The church is not just for the healthy, but especially for the sick.  Caravaggio knew that, and he wants you to see. It is possible that the gospel can be illustrated with unexpected and unpalatable sources.

To the St. Maria del Popolo:

           As much as I wish to be angry with you for keeping me from another Caravaggio, I cannot complain for the reminder that real life will, and sometimes should, get in the way of my plans. I know how much more weight and responsibility of emotion a funeral has than a painting, and attempting to follow and remember Jesus in the stations of the cross can mean much more for some than putting a coin in a machine to cast some light on a scene that is only viewed for a moment.

            

To the tiny nun who took us for the tour of a lifetime through the catacombs:

           Thank you for sharing from the heart and not just spewing information. Thank you for letting us sing the doxology in a cavern where Christians have been lying for centuries.  Thank you for showing us garden flowers and glimpses of paradise, resurrection, and salvation in a dark, dank place of death. Thank you for letting us into places where very few are ever let inside. I will never know your name, but your presence and generosity nearly brought me to tears.

To St. Peter’s Basilica:

          How does a weary pilgrim find Jesus amid the grand chaos of shining Pope tombs and flying celestial babies? We approach welcomed by long stretching arms of architecture and enter lost and feeling completely humbled, or ignored, by the overwhelming glory and weight of gold until we find our Lord in the corner, pale and collapsed into the longing arms of the Pietá.  

The small simple, eye-level images of the dove are just as important as the looming dome.

To Bramante and Borromini:
           Thank you for the peace of a perfect square. For the rest of a white ceiling and a simple yet well-planned and unconventional courtyard. 

To Michelangelo’s Moses:

            You were not always so illuminated with horns, but were transformed and radiant by the presence of the Lord, by the giving of the Law. Your charged strength could not come from your own ill-equipped abilities to lead people and speak with power, only from the Lord. Crafted by humble hands that also were led to do projects they did not want to do, but accomplished so much more in following through in obedience to the asking. Where does the artwork end and the artist begin?

“Just as I have been with Moses, I will be with you; I will not fail you or forsake you . . . Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:5,9)