You are said to have aided many travelers in their
journeys. Legend has it that you were 7.5 ft tall with a fierce face. You
carried many people across a stream, and one day even bore a child worth the
weight of the world. I have never prayed to a saint, but I wouldn’t mind
talking to you right now.
Rome
has only one river, the Tiber (as you probably know, since you are still quite
the celebrity there). You likely also know that Rome has many other “rivers,”
all constantly merging, diverging, and conversing again. In the soft morning
light, I could follow the rattling of the fruit carts on their way to Campo de
Fiori. In the afternoon, I became the common trout: a pink faced tourist in a
mass of other pink faces. I walked on cobblestone that once held the feet of
gladiators, emperors, and commoners who couldn’t afford to be remembered. It is
also the cobblestone of stilettos. In the evenings, cigarette smoke from
restaurant tables flooded my nostrils and slipped away, only to join another
shadow on the orange walls, the marble, or the vespas.
So how does a traveler encounter this colossal sea of
rivers? Some moments I floated on a raft and enjoyed the sun on my back. Other
times I flailed over a waterfall and plunged into the abyss. Does that sound
overly dramatic to you? Perhaps I shouldn’t underestimate your empathy, as you
often encountered both ease and struggle crossing the stream. Perhaps you knew
you were along for a rocky ride and that helped you take it in stride.
Charles Dickens never found the ride pleasant, although
it became worthwhile during his trips to the coliseum. Grown over with grass
and other plant species, it was perhaps its most alive self when he saw it. It
had become a greenhouse, softened by earthly splendor. Dickens felt himself
inside two merging rivers: the gruesome past and the solitary present. What a
contradiction! He confessed he could “never get through a day without going back
to it,” yet found its ghostly presence terrible: “erect and grim; haunting the
old scene; despoiled by pillaging Popes and fighting Princes, but not laid;
wringing wild hands of weed, and grass, and bramble; and lamenting to the night
in every gap and broken arch—the shadow of its awful self, immovable!” (161)
Although a memory of its former self, the coliseum no longer reeked of blood
and corpses. In Dickens’s day, its magnificence still remained in a new form of
loneliness and abandonment. It possessed a haunting beauty because it was in
ruins.
Rome
is a city of contradictions, as Dickens clearly encountered. Rome demanded me
to hold its warring histories and ideas in my hands, my heart, and my head. I
don’t know if Rome could be discovered in any other way. As you are a saint,
you might be interested to hear that my biggest struggle was actually with your
folk. Coming from a protestant background, I couldn’t understand why you needed
more attention than anybody else. The first church we went into, or at least
the first church I remember crying in was Sant’Ignazio di Loyola. Stepping out
of the Roman sun into its quiet corners felt like exiting from one world to
another. I only let my eyes glimmer, although a gasp escaped my throat when I
saw the dizzying ceiling. The heavens opened above me while tangled bodies
clung, robes unfurling, grasping eternity. (I learned later of a secret within
Sant’Ignazio: the domed ceilings are actually an illusion; the painting only
creates the impression of distance.) After regaining my breath, I became aware
of the low chanting of hidden monks resounding through the hall. Candles,
crystal chandeliers, and fake torches adorned the walls. A wooden confession
box stood to my right with a gold handle. Christopher, I’m sure you know all
about marble, but I’ll just add that its intricacy and beauty is remarkable!
The white and red pillars clasped in gold and expansive floor seemed like fire
trapped in ice. Despite the overwhelming awe, negative feelings began to
surface. I felt disoriented trying to distinguish my faith from the God
presented there. I questioned the integrity behind the wealth that became the
beauty, and the largeness of the saints to the smaller, scarcer crucifixes. I
couldn’t shake the feeling that God had become absorbed in the building and
could be lost when exiting.
I
learned that while Rome requires much of its travelers, one can try to forget
the contradictions or continue to converse with them. During our weekend trip
to Pompeii we encountered the lush beauty of Vesuvius, who is also the monster
that singed horror into its victims’ faces forever. Johann Von Goethe, a German
writer in the 18th century, writes of his visit there. During his
brief stay, he witnesses the volcano coughing up black fumes and lava. Shortly
after, he enjoys a glass of wine with a view of sea. Reflecting upon his stay,
he makes a strange conclusion: “I could feel how confusing such a tremendous
contrast must be. The Terrible beside the Beautiful, the Beautiful beside the
Terrible, cancel one another out and produce a feeling indifference. The
Neapolitan would certainly be a different creature if he did not feel himself
wedged between God and the Devil”
(215). How could one forget that they are in the midst of a heaven and
hell on earth? Yet they did. Perhaps it became such an integrated part of daily
life that what so clearly inspired Goethe was lost to the very people that
dwelled there.
However,
I couldn’t surrender to indifference, as we continued to enter into Catholic
churches and were asked to write about them. I suppose I could say that I felt
lost. What should I write? How do I sort out my jumbled feelings, from anger to
sadness to smallness? You probably stared down at me from time to time from
your lofty perch on a wall. I didn’t pray to you, but I prayed to God that I
could better understand. I learned through the process that honesty was my
greatest asset through conversing with Catholicism. Honesty, (especially the
messy kind) allowed and enabled the dialogue to be consistent. Often these
conversations didn’t make their way into our class pitches, but they helped
clear my mind. When my writing lacked this gritty sincerity, I saw my voice
slipping away.
According
to legend, you seemed like a very honest, straightforward kind of guy. You
carried yourself with a giant’s stature and a giant’s courage. Deciding that
you would serve “the greatest king there was,” you left the king of Canaan
after learning he feared the devil. I can’t name anyone I know who would devote
themselves to looking for the ruler of hell. Just saying. Soon you encountered
a band of marauders (which I discovered also go to Hogwarts and promote African
peace in our day). You faithfully served the one who claimed to be the devil
himself until he trembled at the mention of Christ. Having no interest in
prayer or fasting, you began your life service to Christ at that stream.
Whether or not your true life mirrored this pursuit, I can respect your desire
for authenticity and purpose. You could not be fake. You would do anything to
know truth and let it define your life.
In
my own search for authenticity in Rome as a writer and learner, what did I
discover? You might ask. Was I as bold as you? Was I as honest and truth
driven? Did I abandon one self for a new self, one river for another? Through
interesting conversations with Catholic classmates, neck cramps from the
Vatican museum, sweet chills from singing together in the San Carlo basement
(or tomb, perhaps, for Elizabeth Canori Mora), my writing did deepen in its
honesty. I accepted myself, coming to peace with the Roman-church-writer that I
was. I was not radically converted. In fact, I still disagree with all of the
differing theology I encountered. Here is my poem I wrote about San Andrea
during our last week, one of the three churches from our day’s pitch. I was
finally able to confess in a pitch some of the negative feelings I’ve
encountered in Rome:
A marble throne for a pope towers in
front of me. I feel alone, sown into the fabric of a new-old thing, bible
stories grown into gold and marble, all halos, all angels having thrown away
their flesh for stone, fully atoned from the shadows of doubters like me. It
would be woeful to peel back the layers of them, though I wish to see if skin
and blood pulses below. Why do I feel so alone, so far from my God and my home?
Yet in the midst of this, I left with so much more respect for you and
for the church history that Protestants can often be disconnected from. I can
close my eyes and see glowing stain glass windows, which were originally
created to tell stories to those illiterate. I can still feel the sacredness of
silence pressing up against my skin, and surreal presence that resonated from
the paintings. I see a reflection of God’s artistry in the majesty of your
cathedrals. I certainly left Rome with more questions than answers, but I am
grateful to have left much of my hostility behind.
This process was my greatest step forward in my writing,
which allowed me to dig deeper in other subjects in our final pitches.
Ultimately, I am continuing in the journey of truth telling that I’ve learned
many writers aspire to. Christopher, I am glad to say that through both of our
river dancing, we became more of ourselves. You found your true king, and I
found my own faith and writing refined. It is good to become lost and un-lost,
over and over again. On to new adventures! Perhaps sometime we will meet again.
Sincerely,
Kendra Sowers
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