Reflections on New Zealand

We’ve been in dreamy Bali for a few days now, and already memories of New Zealand are fading away, so I have to try to remember what I was going to write for the blog about the month we spent there. A second factor in my lackadaisical attitude is that the number of “views” of the past few postings has been 1-2, so I don’t feel there is much of an audience any more. Still, Matthew has implored me to write something just for “us,” as a record of our trip, and I know he is right, so here goes:

Hobbiton

I have been reading G.K. Chesterton’s book on “Orthodoxy” recently. Chesterton makes a case for an orthodox view of Christianity, as expressed in the Apostles’ Creed. His arguments are quaint and fun to read, at least for me. He begins the book by telling the reader that he has always had this funny idea about an explorer who sets out from England to discover an exotic place, and who ends up “discovering” his own country by accident, planting a flag on the banks of the Thames and going out amongst these strange people, observing their customs, and finding out that they are actually his own countrymen.

Milford Sound

Chesterton’s point is that Christianity is this same combination of the familiar and homey with the novel and bizarre. He says that what we all long for in life is this “romance,” as he calls it, where we find things that are completely familiar and yet have an element of newness, of strangeness, as well, so that we are both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. I do think he is right, and this is in fact what I wrote my master’s thesis about all those years ago, that creativity takes place in a kind of liminal state, a state of “semblance,” as I called it, where we can playfully explore new ideas while still enjoying elements of the familiar.

The reason I bring this up now is that New Zealand combines these elements of strangeness and familiarity. When we first arrived, we had been in Hawaii for several weeks and we found ourselves saying, “This is just like Hawaii.” It was also like the UK, also like Seattle, or perhaps Canada. Indeed, my parents’ friend Bill, a Canadian, reportedly said he never bothered visiting New Zealand because it was too much like Canada.

For me, traveling in New Zealand was effortless. The country seemed to combine the best elements of the Pacific Northwest (breathtakingly beautiful rugged scenery, relaxed informality), the UK (best fish and chips – and pies - ever), and Hawaii (the incorporation of Maori culture, exotic plants and animals, tropical beaches). New Zealand seemed to combine these elements and move beyond them to a realm all its own.

Here are my New Zealand highlights:

·       having brunch at a cozy outdoor restaurant with my old friend Regan, who has moved to New Zealand, fallen in love with a Maori guy, and started a body recovery group in Auckland;

·       smearing ourselves with mud and lounging in various hot springs after marveling at the crazy bubbling crust of the earth in the “Gates of Hell” thermal park in Rotorua;

·       attending a traditional Maori performance and dinner (very much like a Hawaiian luau), at which Matt was chosen as chief of the tourists and got to go up on stage for the welcome ceremony;

·       spending time with Dad and Susan in Wellington, playing Scrabble and taking long walks to discover the sights and tastes of the area, including Chinese New Year and a local farm owned by their wonderful friends Nikki and Beverley;

visiting Lothlorien

·       getting locked out of our camper van in the middle of nowhere under the Milky Way after being swarmed by thousands of Sand Flies, Matt hoisting me up on his shoulders so I could wriggle through the high-top window and tumbling in so I could unlock the door;

·       the staggeringly beautiful Milford Sound and the dozens of raging waterfalls the morning after the torrential rain;

·       driving on the windy mountainous roads with stunning views, many of which reminded me of the Scottish Highlands;

·       the lovely AA meeting outside Dunedin, and the place we camped that night by the boat ramp with one other couple – so peaceful;

·       the holiday park on the beach where we stayed, playing the Police Synchronicity album on a continuous loop in the bathroom, being visited by the noisy and fun Kea parrots;

·       re-enacting scenes from Lord of the Rings in various locations throughout our trip, including Mordor, Gollum’s pool (Matt’s amazing Gollum imitation), dancing through the woods of Lothlorien;

·       the quirky town of Oamaru with its Steampunk museum and Victorian architecture, the bookstore and gallery there;

·       the Little Blue Penguins making their way from the ocean at night.

                                     

Can You Say "Feminist?"

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.

                           -William Wordsworth

One of the most enjoyable parts of this gap year is the fact that I have more time to go to the movies than ever before. Even when we were in Italy, Matt and I went to see O.V. (Original Version) movies with Italian subtitles, like Joker and The Irishman. So one of the first things we did when we came back to Detroit was to go to the movies and see Won’t You Be My Neighbor? the fictionalized account, based on a true story, of Mr. Rogers’ encounter with the cynical journalist from Esquire magazine who wrote a story about him.

The film may be “based” on a true story, but the plot is actually more fiction than fact. The cynical journalist, named Lloyd Vogel in the movie and played by Matthew Rhys, is based on real-life journalist Tom Junod, who wrote the 1998 piece titled “Can You Say…Hero?” for Esquire. The reality ends pretty much there. In the film, Lloyd Vogel is a “broken” person, unable to handle his feelings of anger, unable to bond with his newborn son, losing himself more and more in workaholism. When the movie begins, we see Mr. Rogers showing a picture of Lloyd to his viewers – Lloyd has an injured face that wears a dazed expression, because he has just gotten into a fight with his father at his sister’s (third) wedding. Lloyd and his father are estranged; Lloyd is unable to forgive his father for abandoning his children and his dying wife, Lloyd’s mother.  Lloyd has unresolved feelings of fear, shame, hurt, and anger, which Mr. Rogers, over the course of the film, helps him start to resolve.

“What do you do with the mad that you feel?” asks Mr. Rogers in a song. Lloyd has never known what to do with the “mad,” or the “scared” that is at the root of the anger. Most men (and women, frankly) in our capitalist patriarchy have never known what to do with this, or any, emotion. “The first act of violence that patriarchy demands of males is not violence towards women,” writes bell hooks in her book,  The Will To Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love. “Instead patriarchy demands of all males that they engage in acts of psychic self-mutilation, that they kill off the emotional parts of themselves.”  After a few encounters with Mr. Rogers, including some bizarre and hilarious dream sequences in which Lloyd inhabits the Neighborhood of Make-Believe as his childhood toy, Old Rabbit, Lloyd is able to admit to his wife that his anger is a mask for fear, the fear of losing the people he loves most, especially his wife and son.  This “mask” of masculinity, the creation of a false macho persona that boys learn from early childhood, is something that Mr. Rogers utterly rejects. At one point in the film, Lloyd says something like, “Well, there’s Mr. Rogers…and then there’s you, the real you, right?” Mr. Rogers just looks blankly at him; he is the embodiment of wholeness, of integrity; the on-screen, public Mr. Rogers is the genuine man, the “real” Mr. Rogers, which is one of the reasons Mr. Rogers can be called a hero. In the words of bell hooks, “The quest for integrity is the heroic journey that can heal the masculinity crisis and prepare the hearts of men to give and receive love.”

Dr. William Pollack, a psychologist in The Mask You Live In, a documentary about the devastating harm created by American masculinity and patriarchy, explains: “The way boys are brought up makes them hide all their natural, vulnerable, empathetic feelings behind a mask of masculinity. When they’re most in pain, they can’t reach out and ask for help because they’re not allowed to.” From Mr. Rogers, Lloyd learns to lean into his vulnerable feelings and ask for help. bell hooks believes that “Men cannot speak their pain in patriarchal culture.”  In choosing to become emotionally aware and speak to his wife about his pain, Lloyd rediscovers the path to love and starts to dismantle the internalized patriarchy that has prevented him from healing.

According to hooks, feminist men can engage in parenting in a way in which their own fathers could not. “Parenting remains a setting where men can practice love as they let go of a dominator model and engage mutually with women who parent with them the children they share.” In one of the most poignant and most powerfully anti-patriarchal scenes in the film, Lloyd gets up in the middle of the night with his infant son, allowing his wife to stay asleep. As he looks into his baby’s face, he sings him a Mr. Rogers song: “I like you as you are/exactly and precisely/I think you turned out nicely/I like you as you are.” Lloyd is learning to teach his son, in the words of bell hooks, “To know from birth that simply being gives [him] value, the right to be cherished and loved.” Mr. Rogers teaches this profound spiritual truth in just about every one of his shows.

Lloyd’s ailing father, sleeping in the next room, hears the singing and calls Lloyd to him. “You know,” he says to Lloyd as he tenderly touches his grandson’s foot, “I never did that kind of thing when you were little. That mom thing.”  Lloyd immediately replies, “It’s not a mom thing.” Indeed, by the end of the film, Lloyd has decided to take a few months off work to stay home with  his child. “Feminist masculinity offers men a way to reconnect with selfhood, uncovering the essential goodness of maleness and allowing everyone, male and female, to find glory in loving manhood.” Thanks to Fred Rogers’ example of feminist masculinity, Lloyd forgives his father, learns to love his son, and most importantly, reconnects with himself.

“Enlightened men,” concludes hooks, “must claim mass media as the space of their public voice and create a progressive popular culture that will teach men how to connect with others, how to communicate, how to love.” As we drove home in the car, Matt and I racked our brains to try to think of any male role models in popular culture who do this. The only one we could think of (aside from Mr. Rogers) was Tom Hanks himself. His films are often about the best forms of masculinity. Even his war movie, Saving Private Ryan, is not about blowing away the bad guys – it’s about strength that comes from the capacity to be responsible for self and others: loyalty, honor, and friendship. “This strength,” according to hooks, “is a trait males and females need to possess.”

For, hooks reminds us, “The crisis facing men is not the crisis of masculinity, it is the crisis of patriarchal masculinity. In patriarchal culture women are as violent as men toward the groups that they have power over and can dominate freely.” Mr. Rogers, in serving as a feminist role model for both men and women, has something to teach all of us. His song, “What Do You Do With The Mad That You Feel?” ends this way: “Know that there’s something deep inside/That helps us become what we can./For a girl can be someday a woman/And a boy can be someday a man.”

Take It All

Take, Lord,

And receive all my liberty,

my memory,

my understanding,

and my entire will,

all I have and call my own.

You have given it to me,

to you, Lord, I return it.

Everything is Yours;

do with it what You will.

Give me only your love

and your grace.

That is enough for me.

                   -St. Ignatius of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises no. 234

December 3^rd was the feast of St. Francis Xavier, one of the original Jesuits and best friend of St. Ignatius, who is our good friend, since he gave us the Spiritual Exercises, the most important of which is the Examen prayer, which is part of our Nightly Review each day. Ignatius’ followers complained that he had given them too many exercises, too many prayers for each day, and he told them if they only did one, it should be the Examen. We have found this simple “high/low” at the end of the day to be one of the most transformative prayers there is, and it’s so easy to do! Before we retire at night, we ask ourselves, “Where was I at my best today? Where did I give and receive the most love? What moments am I most grateful for?” and, “Where was I not at my best today? What could I have done better? Where did I give and receive the least love?”  Over time, this examination helps us to discern God’s will for us. This prayer ultimately led me to decide to quit my job after 30 years and try something new, because over the last couple of years at my old job, the “lows” of the day, increasingly, were things that happened at school, and the best parts of the day were things that happened when I was working with others outside of school, with Contemplative Outreach or with people in 12-Step programs. Little by little, I realized I was no longer my best self at the school that sits atop the ruins of the original Northwest School. That last year, I was, in fact, more like my worst self.

I came up with that “built on the ruins” metaphor while visiting Rome, and it feels just right to me. Most of the churches in Rome are built on the sites of older churches, or pagan temples. In fact, many of them have gone through at least two or three different phases. New religions, earthquakes, fires, invasions and lootings all contribute to new churches being built on top of old ones. This seems like a perfect metaphor for the place I worked for 30 years. The school that exists there today has been built on the ruins of the old one. Some things have been retained and cannibalized (for instance, we saw a piece of a pillar from Augustus’ bedroom holding up the roof of Santa Maria in Aracoeli, and we can still see remnants of an integrated humanities program holding up the curriculum) and others completely buried underground (like the Pata Pata or the Mithraeum underneath Santa Prisca). Invasions, new religions, and remodeling have all contributed to this new structure, and while we can sometimes see the remnants when we tour the crypt, nobody even pretends that it’s the same place any more.

So back to my story about St. Francis Xavier.

St. Francis Xavier

I’ve been doing a lot of letting go on this trip, particularly in Rome, and I have found the depths of winter in the Vatican to be particularly helpful for doing this – going to confession at St. Peter’s, getting a Papal blessing during the Angelus on the first Sunday of Advent, crawling up the Scala Sancta on my knees and praying the Rosary in the chapel at the top – all these rituals have helped me in the transition from the first half of my life to the second, from my old vocation to my new one. Since Seattle University is a Jesuit School, I thought it would be a good idea to go to the Gesu church and dedicate myself to my new path there.

There are (at least) two big Baroque Jesuit churches in Rome – the church of St. Ignatius, which was built to celebrate the canonization of the founder of the Jesuits, and the Gesu, which is the world headquarters, so to speak, of the order. It is here that St. Ignatius’ body is preserved under the most fabulous Baroque altar with a crazy machine that lowers a fancy painting of the saint in mystic ecstasy to reveal an even more fancy statue of the saint in mystic ecstasy, all underneath an incredibly fancy ceiling with a painting of – you guessed it – the saint in mystic ecstasy.  https://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/14/arts/design/14chur.htmlUnfortunately, the crazy machine is currently Out of Order, but I found this EWTN video of how it works so we could all enjoy the sight.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nRzDgktt-R0

Also in the Gesu church, the right arm of St. Francis Xavier is preserved in a reliquary. The rest of his body is still in Goa, but they brought his arm back to Rome as a reminder of how many people he baptized with it. It is said that St. Francis Xavier brought more people to the faith than anyone except St. Paul. You might say that he was St Ignatius’ “right hand man.” (That joke was for my Dad)

St Francis Xavier's Arm

I knelt before the scaffolding and white tarp that was covering up the tomb of St. Ignatius, and prayed the Jesuit version of the Third Step Prayer, also expressed in the Third Day song, “Take It All.” I was done trying to run the show, play God, arrange things to suit myself. Once again, I was starting over and handing everything to my Higher Power.

During the Mass, I kept glancing over at the arm of St. Francis Xavier, which is right across from the body of St. Ignatius. Afterwards, I went to thank the priest, who had already taken off his vestments (they featured a giant picture of St. Francis Xavier so I’m not surprised he wanted to get out of that) and was not even wearing a priest outfit. We have this priest counting game in Rome (that morning we had already seen 22 priests on the street) and the way he looked, I would not have even counted him!

Anyway, I went to say hi and told him I was American, and he was really jazzed and told me his name was Vasille and he was from Romania, and had been to Boston, where everyone was so kind to him. I told him how I was going to Seattle U and how it was a Jesuit school and he said, “Have you seen the rooms of St Ignatius yet?” and I said “Not yet, because they don’t open until four,” (it was just one) and he said, “Well, how about let’s go on a private tour?” and then he took us up to the rooms where St. Ignatius lived while he was in Rome and told us the whole story of the wounded warrior who became a warrior for Christ. We got to see the desk where he wrote the Spiritual Exercises, and also his death mask

Me and Father Vasilley with St Ignatius

and his shoes (which people had already cut a bunch of leather off so they could make relics) and of course the basketball court in the middle of the cloister, because as we know, you can’t be a Jesuit and not play basketball. Then Father Vasille blessed my rosary with the cheesy picture of Pope Francis (which I had bought for one euro from some guy in St. Peter’s Square) and we said our goodbyes and it was a really perfect visit and a great way to celebrate the feast of St. Francis Xavier, and start the journey during this Advent season out of darkness into the light.

Upon This Rock

There are 600 churches in Rome. That means if you visited ten churches a day, it would take you two months, without any breaks, to see them all. We have been averaging about 3-4 per day, selected from the "most important" (like the four Papal Basilicas) to the ones that happen to be right next to us (like the "Chiesa Nuova" which contains the body of St. Philip Neri, whom we visited yesterday).  We have been on a haphazard pilgrimage of sorts, in the steps of Peter and Paul, searching for various relics, like the chain that St. Peter had around his leg when he was in prison, which is on the altar at the church of San Pietro in Vincola (St. Peter in chains). This church also contains Michelangelo's statue of Moses, sculpted for the tomb of Julius II, the "Warrior Pope." It was incredibly crowded with groups of tourists, most of whom were ignoring St. Peter's chain and just looking at the Moses statue, snapping selfies and talking in loud voices. We had seen so many lovely paintings of the angel gently guiding St. Peter out of prison that we were more excited to see the chain.

St Peter's chain

We also saw a piece of Baby Jesus' crib in Santa Maria Maggiore, one of the four Papal Basilicas, with a giant (and I mean giant) sculpture of Pope Pius IX kneeling before it with a sweet smile on his face. This was a fun relic to see just before Christmas. Lots of Popes are buried in the Papal Basilicas, often competing with each other to see whose tomb or family chapel could be the most magnificent. For example, in Santa Maria Maggiore, we have the tomb of Pope Paul V, whose nephew, Cardinal Borghese, was one of the great patrons of the arts and collected as many Caravaggio paintings and Bernini sculptures as he could. Across from that is Pope Sixus' funeral chapel, equally gaudy and fancy. The gilded ceiling of this basilica was made from the first gold stolen from the New World by Columbus, presented to the Pope by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella.

Gold Ceiling 

And of course, I had to see Bernini's statue of St. Theresa in Mystic Ecstasy - Bernini and I both think this is his best work, and I admit I did at one point think of becoming a Carmelite nun so that I could "have what she's having" as my friend Steve put it, when commenting on my Instagram photo of the sculpture.

"I'll have what she's having"

Finally, at the end of the day yesterday, we had one more church to see: Santa Pudenziana, a very old church just off the busy Via Cavour, built on the ruins of the house of a senator named Pudens, a Christian convert said to have given hospitality to St. Peter himself.  Our goal: a piece of a wooden altar table at which St. Peter is alleged to have celebrated Mass. There is also an apse mosaic from the fourth century that is very lovely, but we have seen so many mosaics at this point (including the amazing ones in Venice at St. Mark's and eight Unesco World Heritage Churches in Ravenna) so we were kind of "churched out," as Matt said.

We approached the simple ancient facade of Santa Pudenziana down some steps, with beautiful round mosaic floor, in the twilight. The door was open, but no lights were on in the main part of the church. One man sat in the back, in silent contemplation. We walked around the darkened space, looking for Peter's table. Suddenly, we heard laughing and giggling coming from behind one of the side chapels. We wandered outside to the adjacent stone building - lights came from behind the door and we peeked through. There was a locked gate to some underground vault (probably where the table was), and then another door, where we heard children's voices, laughing, and the sound of a bouncing basketball. Behind us, another door led to a small chapel - we heard the gentle notes of a guitar playing an Advent song while a few voices joined in singing, softly and sweetly, in Tagalog.

Back in the courtyard, still no table, we heard more laughter from the other side. A woman hurried out and gave us a smile. She was carrying bags of food for the homeless. I asked about the table and she said to talk to the sister inside, who was teaching a class for refugees.  "I'm gonna knock on that door," I said determinedly, "and ask where they are hiding St. Peter's altar." I cracked the door open and there was a motley group of adults, gathered around a nun at a table. They had open workbooks and were laughing as they studied either English or Italian. "Excuse me," I asked the twinkly-eyed sister, "but I'm looking for the relic of the table where St. Peter celebrated Mass."

They all grinned at me. In the other room, a priest was talking loudly on the telephone, listening to someone's sorrows, telling them to come to Mass tomorrow, and then they'd get some coffee afterwards.  "Ah," said the sister, "I've never seen such a table, but I've heard about it.  I think it's in the part of the church that's being remodeled.  And you know, in Italy, when they tell you something is being remodeled, you have to wait for an eternity." The rest of the group broke into uproarious laughter. I joined in, then thanked them and went out.

Matthew by the stairs of Santa Pudenziana

Night had fallen, and the feeling of peace and joy was palpable, as the members of the Body of Christ went about their Saturday night routines. We never saw St. Peter's table, but we saw him more clearly in that church than in all the other grand Baroque basilicas put together. All the marble and gold and statues of Popes and paintings of saints in mystic ecstasy and relics...the entire grandeur of those churches put together could not equal the weight in heaven of a single guitar string, one page in an immigrant's notebook, a plastic bag of groceries, a child's basketball, in Santa Pudenziana, tucked away beside a busy street in Rome, her members just going about their daily activities. It was more than a fitting monument to Peter, who was there and is there, the rock upon which Christ built His True Church.

Five Weeks In Ferrara

On a dreary night in November, as Bill W. says, I awakened with a profound feeling of regret after a vivid dream. We have been staying in an apartment in the old ghetto area of Ferrara, using a heavy green bedspread as a duvet.

The Estense Castle in Ferrara

There is a heavy-set, older, eastern European woman who wears some sort of flowing kaftan. She reminds me of my high school English teacher, Liza Benedict,  a theater impresario and would-be actress . She tells me she is putting on a community theater production of Fiddler on the Roof and, naturally, she wants me to play Tevye. This production is in Yiddish, or English – it’s unclear. But it will be a casual affair, with just the members of the village showing up to watch it. It will be fun, spontaneous, more like a staged reading of the script than a real production.  I don’t have to memorize lines or rehearse much – just pick up a (frayed) copy of the script that is on the table there, some crumpled, xeroxed pages hastily stapled together, some even in different colors or on recycled paper with something else on the other side.

There is a second actor who will also be playing Tevye. He’s an older man, something like F. Murray Abraham, with a gravitas and yet a flamboyance about him. He reminds me of my high school math teacher, Mr. Highsmith. He has the script and has been rehearsing. He and I will share the role (the way actors in Laura Ferri’s productions at Northwest always did), performing on alternate nights.

There are only a couple of weeks of rehearsals. I keep looking for a complete version of the script, but I can never find one. The script I have been given is only partially complete. Some of the pages are missing; they have been torn away and lost. I am not sure if the lines are in Yiddish, English, or a combination of the two. I make a few very half-hearted attempts to rehearse, or to find the missing parts of the script, but I am reassured by the impresario woman’s words that it is a casual, community theater style event and I feel I will be able to “wing it.” After all, winging it is my forte. I can step out onto a stage with even a partially completed script in my hand and enthrall the audience with the power of my personality.

Meanwhile, the other actor, the F. Murray Abraham/Mr. Highsmith guy, is working his butt off. He is spending many sleepless nights, staying up until 3 AM, memorizing lines, practicing the songs and dances (particularly the centerpiece, “If I Were a Rich Man”) to the point of exhaustion. I start to feel some misgivings. Where is my script? I search around but can’t find it. How much of an effort am I really making, though? I tell myself I will be okay once the time for performance comes.

Opening night arrives, and the other actor is stunning. He has memorized the entire script, even though we were told we didn’t have to, that a staged reading would be okay. He steps onto the stage and plays his part immaculately, perfectly, and the audience is delirious with appreciation. I understand that this performance has been the defining moment of his career. I watch him and realize I am not prepared. I don’t even know where the other part of the script is. I tell him he should just go ahead and do the rest of the performances, and I will watch from the sidelines, which I do.

I have failed. I never realized how serious this was. I never realized how much I would have to prepare. I didn’t know, going into the performance, that it was the performance of a lifetime, that I could have played the part as well as Daniel, if I had known, really known, what was going on, that this was not a rehearsal, not some schlock community theater staged reading, but a performance that would determine my moral essence, because as Sartre knew, existence precedes essence, and because I failed to act in this drama, this “Fiddler on the Roof” where I could have risen to the occasion and spoken the right lines, I became a failure, a coward, a scum, as Sartre says.

The profound feeling of regret I had upon awakening has followed me ever since.

A frog-demon punishes people in Vasari's Last Judgment

So here I am in Italy, eating the weird Ferrara bread called “la coppia” which is foamy and unsatisfying in texture,

"La Coppia"

taking walks “fare una passegiata” as they say in Italian every day with my husband, traveling by train to Venice and Bologna and Florence and Padova to see marvelous works of art that I have taught about my entire life.

Giotto's Lamentation in the Scovregni Chapel

Here I am planning the next stage of my trip, researching how to visit Siem Reap and Bali in an environmentally ethical and sustainable fashion, downloading New Zealand camping apps, reading about backpacking in Ethiopia. And yet, I am still tormented by regret that I failed to act in that moment, when we sat in a circle in a humanities department meeting and heard Daniel Sparler called a white supremacist, misogynist, anti-Semite, and I said nothing. Worse than nothing, because I read some hastily-written, conciliatory, completely fear-driven statement which said that I could not understand how there could be two such horribly divergent narratives and I was having trouble reconciling them. When I look back on that moment, and subsequent moments that fall and winter, I understand how anyone, even someone who considers themself a master of spontaneous, ad hoc performance, could become a collaborator with fascists.

"Mephisto" - winner of Best Foreign Film in 1981

Peter asks, "Is it I, Lord?" in Ghirlandaio's Last Supper

Yes, it’s a shame that the school has become so profoundly unwelcoming to the very people who helped shape it into what it is, that the place I knew and loved and came of age as an educator is gone now. But I could live with that grief, if that were all I had to live with. It’s the feeling that during that first week of September 2018 I somehow lost my soul, and that I will never regain it – that is my fear and my regret and my grief.

I suppose it’s the height of ego to believe that I would be exempt somehow from real sin. I have never felt so Catholic, so glad to be Catholic, as I do here. Right down the street from us is the basilica of Santa Maria in Vado, where in 1174 the blood of Christ miraculously spurted out of the Host at the moment of transubstantiation and you can climb a staircase to see the bloodstains on the ceiling. In Padova we saw the lower jaw, teeth, and miraculously preserved tongue of St. Anthony. There was also a little notebook where pilgrims could write prayers to Nicolo Cortese, a priest who is in line to be canonized in the spring – he died under Gestapo torture in Trieste without divulging any information about the secret network of the Resistance of which he was a part. The prayer requests will be analyzed by experts in hopes that Father Nicolo, “Servant of God,” will perform a miracle or two.Website for Father Placido Cortese In Florence, we climbed the hill to San Miniato al Monte for a Latin Mass and Vespers in the 1000 year old crypt. 

San Miniato al Monte

What do I seek in all this? What do I ask? I guess the same thing Thomas Merton sought – the Grace and Mercy of God.

My favorite Nativity in the Uffizi gallery

The Big Cities of Europe

Well, I was feeling bad about not having written in a while, but I just looked at the fact that the last blog post had zero views and I felt better. This is mostly a record for us, but we have spent so much time just rushing around looking at places that everything is kind of a blur. I thought our lives might slow down now that we are in Ferrara for five weeks, but when I think of everything that has happened this week, it is clear that isn't really happening much.

Anyway, let's see... highlights of the great cities we have been in - London! Paris! Barcelona!

London was rainy a lot. We took double-decker buses everywhere and saw all the sights. We walked for miles and miles. We saw St. Paul's in the sun, in the rain, and everything in between. The dome lit up at night, before and after the wonderful production of Midsummer Night's Dream at the Globe theater, was like a beacon welcoming us to London. The mammoth interior on a Sunday morning, when we went to hear the choral mattins service, loomed over us. We ducked into pubs and ate pies and chips. We went to see The Book of Mormon at the Prince of Wales theater and laughed our heads off. My students had always told me to go see it, and they were right! Our hosts, Bill and Jane, were just delightful. They gave us space to do our own thing, but were also engaging and fun to hang out with. Bill has known me since I was four - one of my dad's oldest and dearest friends - and I love hearing his stories about my dad.

The biggest surprise for me was the Tower of London. I had never done any really touristy stuff in London, except for once we had lunch at Harrod's when Jack was a baby, and I wanted to go to Buckingham Palace and the Changing of the Guard, and the Tower, and Trafalgar Square, and all those things with Matt. I really expected the Tower of London to be sort of fakey and silly, for some reason. But it was actually incredible and awe-inspiring. When the Beefeater (who was an incredibly nice man and told us all about the requirements for being a Beefeater, and how he became one because of his son's school project) mentioned things like "there's the spot Sir Isaac Newton lived when he was master of the Mint," or "here is where Anne Boleyn came through the gate" I got goosebumps. And the ravens were just magical as well!

Matt and Tower Bridge

Paris was sunny and 70, and again, we walked and walked and walked for miles. We went to the opera to see Bellini's I Puritani, which was magical. It was Queen Victoria's favorite! We didn't go up the Eiffel Tower, mainly because you had to have reservations like weeks in advance, but we did go on a cheesy and delightful Seine river cruise, which was, again, surprisingly wonderful and just corny enough. I had never been to the Pantheon, and seeing all the heroes of France buried there, especially Voltaire and Rousseau, was an incredible highlight.

Matt enjoys art

In front of Notre Dame, which was closed because of the fire

The Louvre was super annoying because they had moved the Mona Lisa back into the main building, which meant there was a two hour line just to get up to the floor where she was. Thus, we did not get to see all the other really great art, including one of my favorite paintings, Ghirlandaio's Visitation, that is up there next to her. We did, however, spend all day there, and say the "Dying Slave" of Michelangelo, the Raft of the Medusa, Liberty Leading the People, and this wonderful Spanish painting by Murillo where a monk is having mystic ecstasy in the kitchen. We went to cafes and restaurants and farmer's markets and lived in a little apartment on the fifth floor, under the eaves, near Les Invalides.

Barcelona was dreamy, even with the huge protests that were going on because the Catalan separatist leaders were sentenced the week we were there.  Here is a link to an article about it if you are interested in learning about the issues.

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/oct/14/catalan-separatist-leaders-given-lengthy-prison-sentences

Basically, every night there would be a bunch of people wearing masks, running around the streets right by our hotel, throwing projectiles at the police and lighting garbage cans (and later, cars) on fire. This was distracting, but honestly I don't feel like it detracted from our visit because we were staying with Dad and Susan in a really nice hotel with a rooftop swimming pool. Susan and I would play Scrabble every afternoon on the rooftop (she mostly trounced me, but on my birthday I was very lucky and got two seven-letter words in the same game and was able to beat her for once) and Dad and Matt would relax and read the paper.

Sagrada Familia

At the Opera in Barcelona

Spices in the market in Barcelona

Sagrada Familia was one of the best places I have ever visited. It was absolutely thrilling to be there during the Angelus prayer. The architecture and designs by Gaudi are mind-blowing. Other highlights: just walking around the city, Parc Guell, the Liceu Opera House, where we saw a production of Turandot that was set in space, the Palau de la Musica Catalana, where we saw a Flamenco performance, and of course another city full of incredible food!

So that's the brief story of the three big cities where we spent about a week each. I did make little travel movies about both London and Paris, and will work on one for Barcelona when I can. In the meantime, I hope to start writing about the experience we are having in Ferrara, the city of the Este family of the Renaissance.

Rambles in the West of England

It's been a while since I wrote - we have been packing in the activities and travels, and are now actually in Biarritz, in the southwest of France, for a few days, but I guess that's a story for another post.  I've been making these little travel films of each adventure and posting them on my YouTube channel and between that and secret shop editing, I have neglected the blog!

We left the rental car in Edinburgh and hopped on a train to Carlisle, in the northwest of England, right at the northern end of the famous Lake District, home of Coleridge and Wordsworth and all those folks. Anthony and Caroline had a dream, when they got married, to live in a house at the end of a lane at the top of a hill, and here they were. They were kind enough to host us for a few days, and Anthony, my dear friend from decades ago when we all lived in York, schlepped us around the area, showing us the sights.

I tried to take a panoramic photo of the view from their house

I know the Lake District is known for the Romantic poets, and we did think about them, and I recited "The World is Too Much With Us" at Derwentwater, but mostly I was thinking about the timeless, enduring quality of deep friendships that last for decades. When I saw Anthony, it was as if no time had passed. We were talking and laughing about stuff that had happened to us 30-plus years ago, as well as the visits we had had in Seattle in the intervening time, and also having amazing new conversations about religion and spirituality and kids growing up (their daughter Lucy is the same age as Jack, and we got to meet his younger "kid," Emilia, who is now 18 and a barrel of fun!) and all kinds of topics while we rambled on the paths beside the lake. It also felt really homey to be there - we got to do a load of laundry and hang it up in the sun; Matt helped fix a window; Anthony baked bread for us, and invited friends over for Sunday lunch. We all went out to see the Downton Abbey movie (the perfect film to see with them!!) and just chatted up a storm the whole time.

I miss my friends in Seattle, but seeing my old friends in the UK reminded me how close we remain, even when we are miles apart. I sure hope they can come visit Seattle again soon.

Our next stop was Bath, because I wanted to see the Roman Baths and the Georgian architecture, but also because my old student, Nick Bayne, lives there and works as (of all things) a cheesemonger.  When he was in my humanities class, he had a pretty encyclopedic memory, and now he has used his keen intellect to develop a profound understanding of all things cheese. He presented us with a fine "bespoke cheese plate" at the Fine Cheese Shop where he works - bespoke basically means "custom," which I didn't know. He told us all about the history of each of the local cheeses he selected, regaling us with stories of the cows, the techniques, and more information about cheese than I thought it was possible to know.  We also got to tour the historic sites and spend one entire day in the Thermae Bath Spa, soaking in the same millenia-old water the Romans enjoyed.  You can't actually go into waters of the original Roman baths because, according to Nick, they are full of meningitis bacteria.

My favorite cheesemonger

Georgian architecture at the famous crescent

Here lies a Hampshire Grenadier...

Our next stop on this mini-tour of the west part of England was Winchester. Why? Because the AA Big Book mentions that Bill Wilson, the founder of AA, visited Winchester Cathedral when he was overseas during World War I.

"We landed in England. I visited Winchester Cathedral. Much moved, I wandered outside. My attention was caught by a doggerel on an old tombstone:




Here lies a Hampshire Grenadier
Who caught his death
Drinking cold small beer.
A good soldier is ne'er forgot
Whether he dieth by musket
Or by pot."

Since I am an AA history freak, of course we had to go visit. However, there are are a couple of things I have to point out about this.  First of all, this isn't the actual grave stone, but a replica. The original was moved to the Winchester museum for safekeeping. It was thrilling nonetheless to see the replica, which catches a person's eye right as you enter the cemetery there in front of the magnificent Cathedral, which was constructed in the days of William the Conqueror.

Secondly, the reason the Hampshire Grenadier died is NOT because he drank alcohol. The problem was that the beer was not strong enough! "Small" beer did not have as high an alcohol content as "Heavy" beer, which meant the Grenadier caught dysentery or some other bacterial disease from drinking the "small" or "weak" beer on a hot day.  The rest of the doggerel (not mentioned by Bill) reads as follows:

Soldiers, be wise from his untimely fall
And when you're hot, drink Strong, or none at all.

In other words, the beer has to have a high enough alcohol content to kill all the bacteria, so the advice is actually to drink MORE alcohol!  Oh, well. It's been inspiring sobriety since 1939 anyway.

In case you missed the travel film I made about this little section of our trip, here is a link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1HGJae-cZE