Gaining Perspective.

May 11^th – today - marks the day my metro pass is up. It is also marks the first trip I have taken since my 18 day excursion through England, Italy, Germany, and France about a month and half ago. So I avoided the metro this morning on the way to the train station and pounded the pavement several miles with my backpack. Déjà vu.

I am going a few hours outside of Prague, through the beautiful blooming countryside (on the train as I write) to meet an old friend. Not ‘old’ in a longevity of friendship sense (in fact I have only known him a few months). I just mean old.

His name is Jack. And he is an Irish bastard. Not ‘bastard’ in a literal sense. I just mean bastard.

He’s the kind of guy you want for an uncle – a rarity among men. Intelligence, wit, and a natural sarcasm are change in his pocket, from which he donates charitably and often. In keeping with his heritage (I suppose), he is in a constant state of ‘mess with you’, and is very good at it. He particularly loves to mess with Americans – ‘the colonists’ he calls us. These incessant jabs have formed a most brilliant friendship, and so he has invited my compatriots and me to his house in the country for a couple of days.

We have gotten to know him fairly well. And underneath all the sarcasm and wise-cracking, or perhaps it is better to say that it permeates through him, lay a constant and earnest yearning to live a life that is centered on Christ, His work, and His church.

As I am nearing the end of my time living abroad, I have come to the realization that the people on this continent are more to the point of my being here than anything else. The relationships I have been able to foster and invest myself, in particular, have blessed me at a most needed time.

I am looking forward to visiting my friend Jack, even if (because?) he is an old Irish bastard.

This is difficult for me. I went through something during this service – a fully integrated experience involving my whole being. A transformation perhaps? I really don’t know, or at least I don’t fully understand it yet. I remember the first time I went to Europe, and the feelings and thoughts that I had entering all the different basilicas and cathedrals, particularly during services. Most every time I did, something struck at the core of my soul, and I gained a clearer perspective and understanding of myself, the Lord, the world – the whole thing, really. It’s the distinction between seeing a work of art in a book and experiencing it in person. What you see does not change (in a categorical sense), but the knowledge is strengthened in a way, and it is quite mysterious.

The opening hymn set the tone. The organ was pounding away victoriously as the Westminster choir processed into their pews. The four of us were seated in highly ornate private pews opposite half the choir, the half with the soloists. Before the choir came five little altar boys wearing red robes with white frill fenced ‘round their necks. The crucifix led the procession, followed by the incense and the rest of the priests.

The liturgy began as the choir sang the Gloria. This was where I almost lost it. I sank into the back of my pew, hidden from my neighbors, alone, staring at the softly lit countenance of a boy soprano. He sang in the quartet sections. And from his first note, my eyes began to water, for many reasons I am sure, but for right now I will name just two. The first is because of what that sound represents. A young boy with soprano voice carries with him a tone so pure, natural, and unadulterated that it seems to have been left untainted by the sin born from Eden. It’s perhaps the closest representation of actual purity in all the natural world. This understanding caused my eyes to swell. And they did so secondly, for a reason which is very personal, and most difficult to explain.

I’ve been in choirs all my life, boy choir included. I’ve also been around sacred choral music my whole life. I was born in to it. And I’ve heard sung Eucharist before – many times. But for some reason, this evening was vastly different. I saw my life flash by – growing up in Bowie as a small boy, taking voice lessons from my mother. Joining the Maryland Boy Choir when I was old enough to audition. Touring New York as an eight year old. I saw my family too – as it used to be – four young adventuring boys singing our way through life as our musical parents guided our steps. I saw Jimmy’s face again, innocent and kind, as he touched the heart of every listener. I saw my oldest brother give his last soprano performance with a full symphony and professional soloists. I saw my dad at his old piano in our old house, both of which he was so fond of at the time. I watched the years go by. Not just any years, but a particular set. It is probably most accurate to describe them as my growing years. And while I am obviously still growing (as is clear from this very experience), a major transition has met my eyes all of the sudden. It has been slowly happening I suppose, but it has never been so visceral. It’s like the day historians wake up and realize we all just passed through a new period. “Oh, that was the Renaissance.” Except this is much more personal. Both of my older brothers have real jobs, soon to be careers. My younger brother, who I have always been closest to, is about to graduate high school and go on to college. I miss being with him every day. I miss the days when I was his guide to life, and we never left each other’s side. I miss following my older brothers because they always knew what to do next. But all of this is gone – it has dissolved into one long soliloquy that is the past, and it cannot be retrieved.

So it was in Westminster Abbey during a Sung Eucharist service, while listening to a boy choir with tears about ready to flow down my face, that I realized I am a man. Boyhood is gone. My parents grow old, my older brothers move on, my younger brother grows up, and I am no longer where I have been for so long. I have no choice in the matter. I must embrace the memories of boyhood and bring them forward to where I must now go. Nothing is being lost. More is being realized. A lot more.

Picture me, sitting here, legs crossed at the end of the world,
and in this hollowed haven the heavens beam down with bright rays,
caressing my face and healing my soul.

There are no questions here,
only the sweet and silent whispers of simple truths,
“Rest now, and worry no more.”

Picture me breathing, deeply, and slowly seeing with new eyes
what I’d only ever just pictured before in dreams;
a hope, so like childhood that it steals quickly into the heart of imagination
and clings.

Time is past; the future offers a blank page and a pen.
And as you scribble the breeze hits you full in the face,
you forget what you meant to say, and instead you
breath, deeply, and see all your pains washed away
through closed eyelids.

Today I saw a man walk through the middle of the street, his fist high, his eyes ablaze, yelling at the top of his lungs and holding up a brown satchel bag full of something, well, important I expect.

The only word I caught and translated was “Anti-Fascist!”

There’s just something about being in Post-Communist Czech Republic, and witnessing these little nuggets of happenstance, that lights a fire under you and you really don’t know why.

You go, friend. You go.

Last weekend, I went on a two day trip to a small castle town called Cesky Krumlov, located near the southern border with Austria, and stayed in a private hostel called Skippy’s. I knocked on the door of the house at about eleven in the morning, but did not get an answer for quite some time. I was eventually let in by a German man who was being hired as a painter for an upstairs room; Skippy wasn’t in. I spoke with her on the German man’s phone and she assured me that she would be back within the hour, and that I should make myself at home. So I did.

I enjoyed a smoke with my new German friend on the terrace at the back of the house overlooking the river, and through broken conversation (his English was at least as bad as my German…so nothing), I gathered that he has lived in the town for fifty-seven years, never left. I also gathered that Skippy is black, really cool (he made clear that the two are connected), and a musician. Then his expression changed and he communicated that she is fifteen years a widow. I found a picture of Skippy on the terrace; lightly shaded black-rimmed glasses and long dark hair hid widely smiling eyes – sheer mystery. I already knew Skippy would be perhaps one of the most interesting people I would meet. Oh, and she was half black (I would find out later; half Cuban, half Czech). But someone else came in the house first, someone just as full of intrigue.

Her name was Teresa. She wore thick prescription glasses (also black-rimmed), had straight hair, pulled back, and a straight voice. She moved to Cesky Krumlov seven years ago, originally from L.A., she helps Skippy run the place. A self-proclaimed recluse, she enjoys her life in Cesky Krumlov immensely. She spends most of her days hiking, running through woods and meadows just over the hills surrounding the town. She reads a lot too and sees her favorite ballet company when they come to Vienna or Berlin. And for a recluse, she sure talked a lot. Skippy would constantly joke with her about that, “Does your jaw hurt?” she would say. Czech humor. Teresa is the type of woman you could spend hours talking with, about almost anything too. And once she told me she studied philosophy for her undergrad, there was no stopping the conversation.

Skippy eventually came in. Her two dogs came alive and followed her all over the house while she was humming, humming, always humming. She wore black tights with shorts, a track jacket, and her leg warmers fell over her running shoes like a mushroom blanket. The room took a breath of familiar air, and I was as comfortable as I have been since arriving in Europe. I was surrounded by picture collages, a library of cassette tapes and compact disks, Skippy’s own instruments, artwork from previous guests – a plethora of historic details. It felt like home.

Over the next two days I hiked as long and as far as I could. I went in to the town, up the castle, and beyond through long fields and jutting hills. The sun shone as a brilliant cadence on the score of Cesky Krumlov and I was all ears. I began to think of what it would be like to live in such a place. Teresa had told me that everything she wants to do every day is available right where she is, and that’s why she lives there. I thought about that all day. And as I kept exploring, the romantic idea of living in this beautiful little world became more and more attractive. Something about it just captures you, similar to Prague in that sense, but in a more nature driven way. And even though I certainly entertained the idea, I knew I could never do it. It just wouldn’t make sense.

I would have to leave my life behind, everything I know; my family, friends, memories connected to certain places – in many ways I would leave behind parts of my own self. I would have to become a recluse. (I would be running away). And as beautiful as Cesky Krumlov was (and is), I concluded that it could never be worth it to leave behind my roots, both old and new, even for such a place. I could never sacrifice community for solitude.

Several hours before I had to catch my bus, I was able to play music with Skippy. I played a few songs, gave her the guitar, she played a few, and so on for about an hour. Near the end of our time together, while it was her turn, I smiled slightly to myself, realizing that in front of me sat singing the reason exemplified I would never leave my own roots behind. I recognized the passion with which she played – the tightly closed eyes, the unadulterated tone, the natural flow of movement. But she was singing in Czech, she grew up here, she belonged here.

Perhaps it’s strange that my sense of place is only strengthened by such ventures.

Perhaps not.

You know the brick path in the back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window,
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk into the woods you come
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond that you arrive
at the bottom of sheep’s head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab on to a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is a high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.

The best time for this is late afternoon
when the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing
but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy
falling of a cone or nut through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against
its breast made of humus and brambles
how we who will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
piercing the ground with your stick.

-Billy Collins

(at St. Vitus Cathedral)

Vivified, old, and ornate,
this structure none can placate.

A cold dismal day is overshadowed
by towering prickly presence;
tickled by the brief warmth of breath,
this feeling, yet fleeting, holds prescience.

Vivified, all alive, and in reflected grandeur,
this structure stands o’er frozen bodies.

2/22/11

John Lewis Gaddis, in his work Landscapes of History, illustrates the massive juxtaposition that occurs when one is confronted with historic magnitude. The feeling is akin to lifting off in an airplane: as one rises in the air, one feels a commanding strength that is empowering, certainly, but it is soon met with the feeling of incredible smallness. The inevitable discovery of one’s own place – perspective – is important in all studies, art included. It is by no means despairing, however, that our smallness and distance in time from so much of what we encounter makes us feel insignificant, and makes us feel as though we can never understand or grasp what lay before us. Instead, this reality should instill in us a vigorous fervor to gain as much knowledge and experience as we possibly can, and find those driving forces which string together all studies, particularly one so visceral as art and aesthetics.

Last week, I was exploring more of this city on the North side of the Vltava, and stumbled upon a beautiful cathedral – you know, the kind you would never have found unless you stumbled upon it. It was evening, and the night air breathed a wash yellow-brown light on the cathedral, giving it a translucent sort of radiance. I skipped up the front steps and heard the faint sound of singing as I drew nearer the door; a Vesper’s service. I opened the door, and the low hum of the organ swelled suddenly full, flooding my ears with composed brilliance. I slid into a hard wooden pew near the rear, and sat down quietly.

The cold was biting.

During prayer I peered above interlocked hands and saw small clouds of breath form in front of sober faces as they responded in unison to the priest’s prompting. The liturgy continued – kneel, stand, prayer, song – it moved right along and I followed as best I could. During the exchange of peace, I offered my hand and a smile and mumbled the word in soft English, hoping my foreign tongue would go unnoticed. Cold hands met, and sober faces turned up warm smiles. I was surprised by that; I couldn’t tell you why.

The congregation was full and it was not even Sunday. It was cold and uncomfortable, and this alone would have been enough to drive most people out of the building altogether and into the warmth of their own homes. But here they sat - the elderly, families, even infants – here they sat through the freezing cold, and in stiff pews, holding on to the hope of warmer days to come, no matter how far off that seems.

I don’t complain about the cold anymore.

Each one is a gift, no doubt,
mysteriously placed in your waking hand
or set upon your forehead
moments before you open your eyes.

Today begins cold and bright,
the ground heavy with snow
and the thick masonry of ice,
the sun glinting off the turrets of clouds.

Through the calm eye of the window
everything is in its place
but so precariously
this day might be resting somehow

on the one before it,
all the days of the past stacked high
like the impossible tower of dishes
entertainers used to build on stage.

No wonder you find yourself
perched on the top of a tall ladder
hoping to add one more.
Just another Wednesday,

you whisper,
then holding your breath,
place this cup on yesterday’s saucer
without the slightest clink.

- Billy Collins