Archive for the ‘Thoughts’ Category

Grit and Graffiti

Wednesday, May 14th, 2014

Rome is a city of layers, you never know what it is you will find as you find yourself negotiating between one level and another. There is the historic city center, the amazing monuments and the tourism layered with the periferia of the countryside and rural suburban outer layers of the city. But within those two there are thousands of different layers of being, each one given a home on some street, some intersecting grid of life within the confines of a city that is so full of surprises, both good and bad.

I have been trying to learn the many facets of a city with limitless faces. The only way I know to go about doing this is by talking with Roman natives and exploring the different neighborhoods or rione of Rome to see the many faces myself, eye to eye.

Today after my typical weekly market visit to Trionfale, a friend and I headed to a new rione I had never been to before, the San Lorenzo area that is the home of La Sapienza, the main university of Rome near the main train station in Rome, Termini.

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The rain had gone, and the sun was warm on our backs as we ducked into the dark underground metro station that would take us to Termini where we would then adventure out into the San Lorenzo area. When we emerged into the light again in an entirely different section of Rome, it was truly disorienting. It has often felt that way for me when I take the metro places because you emerge from darkness into a totally new, unknown area with a sense of overwhelming mystery washing over you. Even though it is the same city, it doesn’t feel like it. Everything is so different and varies so greatly from one metro stop to another. The air, the people, the buildings, and everything there is to a rione, it is strange to suddenly emerge into a world unknown when you had just started to understand the world you were currently inhabiting. It is like having the earth pulled from beneath your feet and replaced with shifting sand that fills your shoes with the weight of mystery, that simultaneously weighs you down but spurs you forward to discover and unveil what the mystery attempts to hide.

Walking through what I could only describe as a Roman Chinatown, my friend Natalie showed me to the Acquario Romano, a strange building full of different works of art. But we didn’t come for the exhibits; we actually came for the bathroom. Yes, you heard me right, the bathroom. Underneath the building where the bathrooms for the building are, there is a tunnel that is used to get to the bathrooms, is itself a fantastic work of art. Today was actually the last day to look at it before the slate was painted over and wiped clean for the next artists to come and work their magic. The walls of the tunnel had been fully painted in the combined efforts of two fantastic artists with a contrasting style of almost childlike monsters and the grotesque realism of the other that made for a disturbing, but also deeply fascinating artistic experience.

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To try and get a feel of what San Lorenzo was like we just wandered around the streets of the city looking at street art, graffiti and trying to absorb the feel of a part of the city that was not the overly touristy yet fantastic historic city center of Rome. The art was fun, and great and it seemed like every single wall was covered in a variety of different graffiti tags and other works of street art. It gave San Lorenzo a gritty feeling that while beautiful was a strong reminder of the real nature of Rome as a city of turmoil, struggle, and real life not like the idealized and romanticized pictures of Rome that all the tour books and postcards paint.

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But it isn’t all political protest and turmoil, we also had a fantastic time at the old chocolate factory S.A.I.D and got some really amazing hot chocolate that was more like pudding than a drink. It truly is a place of contrasts; to turn a street corner away from graffiti to an adorable little chocolate factory with a cafe inside full of beautiful chocolates and drinks.It was an intriguing transitional experience to see these two things co-existing in one space. That is the epitome of Rome I think, the co-existing of extremes. It was this that we glimpsed in San Lorenzo.

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We stepped out of Termini into the real Rome. A Rome of gritty contrast, both beautiful and terrifying, eternally magnificent yet stricken with problems that run directly to the core of a city that was once the throne of almost the entire known world. Political slogans and words of grave protest splashed across every building, pictures of turmoil, hurt, and injustice screaming out of the cracks in the walls like the voice of the Roman people crying to be heard. The real Rome.

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It is a strange thing to study abroad because you are neither a tourist nor a local and everyone can somehow see this. You try to fit in as a local, but you are treated as a tourist, which in many respects you still are even though you try very hard not to be. We are temporary residents, which often means we as study abroad students only have time, or only want to make time, to recognize the monumental beauty of a place by seeing the “Top 101 Things To Do in _________” instead of taking the time to get to know the city as it really is, turmoil, gritty truth and all. It is probably the most frustrating part of studying abroad, being neither native nor naïve tourist, while not being able to access the comforts of either. There is no security of a native, that is the comfort of the known and familiarity, while also being denied the peaceful naivety of a tourist who can come and go in a few days with only seeing the highlights, the best and greatest and nothing more or less. As a study abroad student, we have access to neither, but still we strive and try as hard as we can to fit in as a local even though I think it may very well be stamped across my forehead that I am an Americana and I don’t belong or don’t understand. It is a complicated and multifaceted experience to study abroad that serves to open the eyes of students like myself to that very fact, that life everywhere is complicated and more than just a few amazing monuments, or more than just history, it is a living, breathing work of art, intricately woven together. The complex intertwining of the multifaceted aspects of a city are never easy to comprehend, all we can do is try to understand instead of putting on blinders to the pain, misfortune, and struggle of those around us. Four months is not enough time to understand the political rifts or impoverished struggle of the everyday person. Nor is it enough time to comprehend the vast beauty that a place like Rome has to offer. Four months is not enough time for anything to be honest, but all I can do is try to see what it is the Roman’s see. What I saw in San Lorenzo was just one of the many layers of Rome that is the beginning of Rome revealed, the Rome that the locals know and the tourists try to ignore. I am beginning to understand the complexity of the living breathing Rome as the creature that it really is, one layer of its being at a time.

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Through the Looking Glass and Back

Wednesday, May 14th, 2014

Today was the last day of the first part of my academic semester. I have completed the Intensive Advanced Italian Practicum, and today I took my written and oral final exam. It is a bizarre feeling to be taking a final after only three weeks of class, but here I am. This means that soon I begin my core classes and with that, begin the rest of my time here.

But so much has happened in the three weeks that I have been here living my life as a student. Since so much has happened, I am going to focus on the best day that I have had while staying here in Rome so far. It feels like it would be impossible to get a better day than this, but I will just have to see what the future has in store for me.

This last Wednesday was perfect. Recap of what happened: Saw the Pope, ate the best pizza ever, figured out how to use Roman public transportation without dying, went to an amazing gallery for next to no money, and got to read under the cover of ancient columns in a garden of statues, while listening to a man play the accordion. Yah, it was a magical day where every single little thing just happened to go my way.

I will begin with a letter. A letter sent from the Prefettura Della Casa Pontificia granting my roommate Elena and I entry to a Wednesday sermon from the Pope himself that would be held in Saint Peter’s Square.

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All of which meant a 7am wake up call for Wednesday to head over to the Vatican, and see Pope Francis with our own eyes and hear him give a sermon with our own ears. We woke up to the pouring rain battering against our window panes, not even sure whether we would get to see the Pope because of the bad weather. Regardless, we made the small trek to the Vatican just in time for the rain to clear up for one grand moment. Between intermittent sunshine and cloud coverage, we pushed our way to the front and got seats in the fourth from the front row. Then came the waiting game, which very quickly became a miserable, but memorable wait. After an hour of waiting it began to rain again, but not just rain, it was a torrential downpour. Every single person there, and let me tell you the whole square was packed, had their umbrella open. It was a massive sea of disjointed colors attempting to cover themselves from the downpour. Every umbrella interlocked with another, it felt like a fortress that we were all in together. I must say though, it was not an impermeable fortress. Rain snuck in every nook and cranny, just enough to soak everyone there. My umbrella was dripping water the entire time, but we all hung in together, persistent and hopeful that the Pope would indeed still come, and hopeful for just a moment of sunshine or the halt of the rain.

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We waited in the rain for an hour and a half when for just a moment, the rain stopped. Everyone warily stuck hands out of the fortress of umbrellas to feel for rain, and finding none, one after another all the umbrellas closed. It was in this moment of relief from the rain that the crowd began to roar. At the far corner from where we were sitting (the middle front) the crowd had sprung to life, waving flags chanting, and screaming one thing: Papa Francesco!IMG_7230

And there he was. He drove around the square several times, making sure to visit every corner so that everyone had a fair chance to see him, no mater how far back they were in the crowd. I was surprised to see that the Pope mobile had no side glass on it, it was all open. He drove around, stopping to talk to people, even kissing babies that were held up above the crowd. He truly connected with the people there that had waited for hours in the cold and the rain. I even saw him throw up a peace sign to a couple of people, which was hilarious to see. He just seemed so happy and engaged with the people, genuinely happy. IMG_7231

After making his laps, the Pope went to the center where he would remain for the duration of the ceremony.  The rain started again to the sound of a begrudging communal groan and the umbrellas all went up again. So for that portion of time we couldn’t really see much through the barricade of umbrellas.  But what we could do was hear, and it was truly an experience. We listened to the Pope speak to the entire crowd about the importance of Mass, and the importance of taking communion based out of the book of Matthew, one of the gospels in the Bible. The entire sermon was in Italian, but just like the other times I had attended Mass in the Vatican, I was able to understand most of it. IMG_7251

Then, after the sermon was over the Pope bestowed his blessing on the crowd, which consisted of different priests standing up and translating what the Pope said in his blessing into a ton of different languages. This took up a majority of the time,  but it was very interesting to see the effort that went into blessing each group of people, each one in their own language so they could understand what it was he was saying to them, and how he was blessing them.

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After he blessed the audience, the sermon was over and we were free to do whatever we pleased. For us, that meant adventuring because to go to this event we actually had to skip class. So normally, we would have had a couple more hours of Italian, but today we were free.

Freedom usually means one of two (or both) things while in Italy: time to get coffee, or time to eat food. On this day we decided to do both because we were just so excited about not having class. So our first stop was a little caffè called Sciasia Caffe, which is rumored to have excellent coffee. It was a nice open caffè with a few seats and a nice bar to stand at. I ordered un caffè eccelente (espresso with a touch of chocolate) and it was really extremely good. One thing that I have found about the coffee in Italy is yes, it is much stronger, but doesn’t need the same amount of sugar or cream I usually like because it is not as acidic or bitter as American coffee is. It is very nice and smooth and easy to drink whereas American coffee is often watery and bitter. All except for my all time coffee love of my life at Philz in Berkeley which I miss dearly! IMG_7284

After our short coffee break, since all coffee breaks in Italy are short, we decided to try to figure out how to use the metro. I am slightly terrified of public transportation that I am not used to (I still have yet to take Muni in San Francisco because of this) and the transportation system in Italy has always overwhelmed and terrified me. But on this day we conquered that fear and took the metro, which was kind of just like BART back in the Bay. It was easy, fast, and there was a man playing the accordion inside the car we were standing in which is always an added bonus.

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We took the metro to the famous Pizzarium, a to go gourmet pizza place with real Roman pizza and very fresh amazing Roman ingredients. I had been once before and like it, but wasn’t extremely impressed, but this time entirely changed my mind. The pizza was hands down the most amazing thing I had eaten in Rome to date. IMG_7289 IMG_7291

One slice was a simple Mozzarella di Buffala (Mozzarella made from buffalo milk) and basil on a fresh cooked pizza and a splash of olive oil. But the other, my gosh, the other was amazing. Every time I come here there are a few flavors that just look scary to me because I either have no idea what it is, or it is something I normally would avoid. But I had decided to try one flavor that scared me every time I went, and I was not disappointed. The other slice I got was a slice with Sicilian broccoli, some sort of meat like prosciutto, potatoes, and some sort of orange marmalade. It was to die for! The mixture of vegetables, salty cured meat, and the sweet orange zest was truly an incredible experience and I felt like for the first time I was going on a culinary adventure in Italy. It blew my mind. IMG_7293

With caffeine and delicious pizza in our stomachs we decided we would continue our adventures across the city in Villa Borghese. A huge garden complex filled with museums, fountains, statues, and just plan old nature in the heart of Rome. We wandered around the park looking at the statues and enjoying the long curve of the umbrella pines as we made our way to the main gallery, Villa Borghese.

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The museum is housed in an old mansion in the back of the park and we weren’t sure if we would be able to get in because you usually need reservations for a specific time slot, but we thought what the heck, why not try? The day had been so great so far, it wouldn’t be ruined if one thing didn’t go our way. So we went there and not only were we able to get in right at that very moment with no wait, but we also got in for only 2 euros verses the normal 16 euros due to the kindness of a very nice woman.

The Gallery was incredible. I have never appreciated galleries or art as much as I did when looking upon the Bernini sculptures housed in that place. The art there was incredible, not even just the art but the entire building, every inch covered in paintings or frescos. It was a never ending amusement park that just got better and better as you passed from one room to the next. We also happened to go to the gallery on the day that a Giacometti exhibit was starting, so not only did we get to see the normal art (and classifying it as normal is near blasphemy) we also got to see Giacometti’s amazing sculptures. The juxtaposition of Giacometti’s ghostly, thin wraith like metal sculptures and Bernini’s grand white marble statues full of movement, strength, and life was interesting and enhanced the experience a lot.

I love art, always have and always will. But I was never really a huge museum person, at least not a serious one, but in this gallery I felt like for the first time I was able to see the attributes and value of the art itself and the artistry and impossible work that went into making the pieces that stood before me. Bernini blew my mind. His David statute I could stare at for hours. The intense stare locked on the unseen Goliath, his body twisted and tense as he gets ready to unleash the sling, and even his mouth was a thin taught line of tension. A masterful capture of life, movement, athletic activity, and passion caught in a statue of cold unfeeling marble. I could have stayed the entire time just looking upon that statue.

It was an awe inspiring two hours, after a long but amazing day. It is hard to form words after a day like that, hard to say how amazing the art was, or how appreciative I was at getting to see the Pope. So many unspeakable things that just made for a wonderful day. With no words left in me to speak, we all split up and went our separate ways. For me that meant sitting underneath the cover of ancient columns in the park while listening to a man play the accordion masterfully nearby. I sat there surrounded by old statues with missing limbs and read my book, trying to make sense of how wonderful the day had been. Wondering at how much I really needed that day because it had been really rough. School is hard, life abroad is hard, so much is difficult, so much is not inherent or easy here. Days like last Wednesday keep my alive and remind me what all this hard work is for. Every hardship is a reminder that I have to work for this life, so much is given to me in so many different forms, the least I can do is put in grateful and humble effort into the work that I must do as a thank you to everyone who has helped me get here, even myself.

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Beautiful Catastrophe

Wednesday, May 14th, 2014

Rome is a city of juxtaposition. A place where two unlike things are constantly colliding with one another; sometimes resulting in a beautiful abstract work of art, and others producing nothing but a colossal disaster of a mess. The result is not always pretty, but it makes for an interesting spectacle. Eternally stuck between two extremes, Rome is a world where complete opposites sit civilly across the table from one another sipping coffee. Of the thousands of juxtaposed attributes of this city, it is the coexistence of exaggerated slowness and frantic haste that intrigues me the most.

I spent my Saturday morning at the Prati market called Trionfale, nestled in the back streets behind the Vatican. This market was once a huge open air extravaganza and is now technically still an open market, just housed inside a large facility with stalls for vendors to use. Five rows of vendors stretch across this huge facility, each stand filled to the brim with the food of their trade, be it milk and cheese products, the meats of butchers, the breads of bakers, or fruits and vegetables, they are here at a very low price.

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This market is the epitome of this strange juxtaposition of urgency, impatience, and haste co-inhabiting the same space as leisure, painstaking slowness, and practiced appreciation of minute details. When I stepped under the cover of the market and out of the downpour of rain outside, folding my umbrella neatly and carefully, I was able to make my very first observations of the market: I was completely overwhelmed. Hundreds of people jammed down skinny aisles all moving in a thousand different directions, or worst of all, not moving at all. It’s like getting caught amongst salmon during spawning season who are all trying to head up stream. Except all the salmon forgot which way  was up stream. And the stream was coming from five different directions. And the stream is flooding. And bears are trying to eat you, did I forget that part? Yah, it is kind of like that.

Vendors yelling at you, Ciao bella! Trying to draw you in all at the same time. Native Italians who have been doing this their whole lives wedging in front of you yelling out their orders before you have time to say Buon Giorno because you look like a tourist who just got slapped in the face with a fish. Little old ladies who you are trying not to step on because they look so fragile and small, but they just bustle past you without a worry, running your foot over with their market cart. People trying to speak to you quickly in Italian as you try to explain you can’t speak nor understand anything very well.

But. Vendors also kindly handing you free samples of the best prosciutto you have ever had, or a taste of pecorino romano, a delicious Roman cheese. Or vendors giving you extra tomatoes and salad mix just because you smiled and said thank you. Native Italians helping you order something you don’t know how to say, or helping me reach something that was too far away for my short arms. Little old ladies stopping to talk, and talk with you slowly about how crazy the amount of people there are in the market on that given day, or nice little old ladies telling you where to buy the best bread and eggs.

This is the mixture of experiences, jostled moments in the market. The interactions that are written down in the book of what Italian life is, caught in the current of two different streams of life. One rushing downhill like a hurricane coming ashore, the other a wide berthed river lesiurely ebbing with the tide. People crushing you like a lost ant who lost the line back home, or stopping to take the time to help a wounded creature who knows no better than walking into the trap laid by a hunter in wait. The difference between haste and slowness. People who won’t give the time of day, and people who will give you every second of their lives and then some for no reason at all but to be kind.

In the chaos of it all I probably took several laps around the entire market feeling hopelessly lost and out of place. Overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people, all the different vendors selling mostly the same things at different prices, and the strangeness of it all. This market is so far from anything I had ever experience, both in the people and in the actual goods being sold here. The butcher stands are the most shocking and hard to get used to. There are entire animal carcasses hanging or lying in the display case. Heads of boars perched above like the guardian overseers of the market place, endless chains of sausages, and whole smoked or cured animal legs just waiting to be carved up for the next customer.

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But this strangeness is part of the beauty of the entire spectacle. The very fact that these strange things, strange experiences that seem so out of this world to me are now the quotidian everyday aspects of my life is just so hard to come to terms, but it is what makes the expat life so wonderful.

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I finally stopped in the center of the market, took a deep breath and actually slowed my frantic pace enough to truly see what was around me. A vendor selling every type of nut I had ever seen before was right in front of me. I didn’t buy anything, but I stood there marveling at the beauty of the scene. There was so much beauty here in the chaos, I just needed to step back and actually look at it to truly see.

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But it isn’t just the physical speed of the market that marks it as the epicenter of a massive juxtaposition, it is how people act and feel. It is the actions done in patient slowness and careful tenderness like the woman working as a butcher who takes artful time to slowly carve paper thin slices of prosciutto. The deliberate strokes, the steady hand, and the total focus she has on just that moment, that one action as all else falls away. I waited in total silence, enrapt in this small moment of slowness. As soon as she was finished with her task and done serving me, she became a vendor again crying out to the crowds, trying to bring in the people to her stand. It was such a dramatic shift from slow deliberate and tender caring motions to the rapid gesticulating of a vendor quickly speaking in italian to strangers to get them to buy their food. But knowing, underneath the hasty, and rapid gesticulations was a careful and caring artisan who cared deeply about her product and caring for the customer.

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Everyone you see seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere fast, yet the very same people who will push you in the narrow aisles can be seen just a few vendors away, taking exorbitant amounts of time to smell a clementine to see if it is just ripe enough to be sweet to the taste.

It is a beautiful catastrophe. To observe and partake in this amazing spectacle of human activity is truly an experience. To be both in the thick of bustling life, but be outside of it at the same time to be able to witness both sides of the clashing extremes in the tiniest of moments that would be so easy to miss when swept away by the undertow ebb and flow of Italian life.

This is the struggle, but also the gift of this life I find myself living here in Rome. The pull between being swept away by the habitual ritual of living life in Rome, and the constant awe that overwhelms me at random moments because this beautiful catastrophe belongs to me, every ounce of its beauty, and every ounce of its pain. It is so easy to be caught up in the urgency and haste that is so prevalent in Italy, exhibited in things like the market, or the traffic, dear lord the driving in Italy is horrifying, but everything around me is a constant reminder of how extraordinary this life truly is. The fact that when I hurry to school every morning I pass by the Vatican, cross the Tiber River, and walk under the watchful and protective gaze of the Archangel Michael who wields his sword from atop Castel Sant’Angelo, and that this is entirely normal. This is normal yet so very extraordinary. I hope to never forget that. Even when the weeks turn into months, I hope to be apart of the flow of this city, but not a part of the haste that sweeps away the ability to truly see the things around me.

Though my life and time here is already passing by quickly as the marker for my third week here fast approaches, I will never cry out as Job did saying

My days are swifter than a runner, they speed by without seeing happiness. Job 9:25

I will take hold of this juxtaposition of Rome and embrace the collision of swiftness and slowness to live a life here that is without regret, and instead is full of appreciation for every little thing that I encounter while I am here. Though my days are swift, I will never forget to stop and see with happiness the blessings placed before me.

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Coffee in Cracked Tea Cups

Sunday, April 13th, 2014

Life abroad, attempting to carve a niche into a foreign place, amidst foreign people is a difficult and ever exhausting task. Every day is a struggle, one of the best struggles I have ever been blessed enough to take part in, but still a struggle all the same. Every day is a battle, some more successful than others, but even the battles lost are they in themselves a victory. Making the leap over seas is a thousand steps forward, to lose a day is maybe ten steps back. No matter how many days don’t go my way, I am still over 6000 miles successfully out of my comfort zone. Every step I take treads new ground. I am stretching and growing and that can be a painful process, but one I gladly undergo knowing I will emerge a different person forged by fire.

Exhausted is a word I don’t think I have ever used as much as I have this last week. Mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. It is easy to say that, but hard to explain that I have probably never been happier. It is the exhaustion of a day well spent. Bone tired, fall into bed with your clothes still on exhausted, but all the while knowing, deeply satisfied in your heart that the exhaustion comes from not a second wasted. This is my everyday.

Today is the mark of my first week completed in Rome. Today was the third day of my intensive Italian Practicum class. Today was the first time I got to take a break. It has been raining almost all week and today I decided to just take a breather. Go home, make myself a cup of coffee and read Moby Dick while watching the rain fall outside. It was a glorious day.

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It is so easy to forget to breathe when there is so much to do, so much to see, and so much homework waiting to be done. Sitting in my living room, in my apartment on Cola di Rienzo, leaning on the window sill looking down the street that I now call home with a cracked tea cup full of coffee, I am able to sit back and realize how great the exhaustion is. It has been hard at times to feel excited about being so drained, so tired at the end of everyday, fighting to stay awake and go out and explore. But running my finger across the coffee stained crack in my tea cup I began to understand. This mug was used before me by the previous owner of the apartment, Americans, Romans, I do not know. The remnant of their presence left in the few dishes they left behind, in the earthy colored crack that scarred the porcelain cup. It had seen hardship, it had been marked by whatever had made the crack, some experience unseen and unknown to me that I now saw the aftermath of in a slender mark. It was changed, altered, by what had occurred, but it did not break. It survived as I will survive, even when it gets tough and I feel like I am falling apart at the seams, I will be changed, but never ruined.

So it is with my coffee in hand and a week in Rome behind me that I continue forward excited and anticipatory for what is to come. For now the rain will fall and I will sit, taking in every raindrop as a token, a well appreciated gift.

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The Crow that Cries to Me

Sunday, April 13th, 2014

Ruffled feathers, folded wings tucked neatly away against a lithe black and grey body, a raven sits atop a wind bent tree. The long slender tree sways under the pressure of the coming storm looming in the distance, yet so close on the dark horizon. The raven sits unheeded, the sentry set to duty atop a watch tower made before the brick buildings and red thatched roofs knew their beginning.

It was a cry, a melancholy call that caught my attention. Pulling my gaze away from the landscape to the fellow watcher, the other who gazes beside me posted in his sentry tower like a soldier at hand to a distant calling war. I could barely make out his shape against the dark green of the tree he had made his home in, it was his call that rang clear like a gunshot across the sky. Head thrown forward to utter his wretched cry. But he had the same vantage point as I, as I leaned against the wrought iron railing of the Villa Borghese garden overlook. I had paused in my wanderings around the city of Rome, having traveled from Piazza Navona to the Spanish Steps, finally finding my way to Villa Borghese to stop and watch the sun be swallowed up by the returning storm at sunset.

IMG_6862Rome lay before me in all of its sprawling glory. It is hard to contemplate a scene such as that. A vast city full of endless wonders viewed from a single vantage point that is far removed from the hustle and bustle of every moment happening within that view. Every building, every street, every shop, every alleyway has a separate and entirely unique occurrence in that very moment that I looked upon all of the Historic City Center. Moments I will never see, never know, and never have the pleasure of understanding. All across this city lives are being led. Lives as equally important, if not more important than my own. Not lives like those depicted in movies or reality TV shows; just normal everyday lives like the one I am leading here. It is strange to stand at a viewpoint or an overlook because it is not just a view, and you cannot quite understand what it is you are overlooking. Yet I return to these overlooks all the same because somewhere inside you can feel the heartbeat of every single person in Rome if you just close your eyes and breathe in the breath of a city that seems to be ever exhaling.

It was this multitude of heartbeats that rang out in the cry of a crow. We shared that moment, an animal and I. Strange enough as it sounds, I could not help but look at it and wonder,

Do birds sit on treetops for the view? 

Every moment, for a bird like the one that cried to me, is constantly caught between living a life from the most pristine of vantage points to the squalor of the dirtiest streets, rushing back and forth between uncaring human feet. Did it appreciate the view? Did it see what I saw, did it know the magnitude of what lay before it? Did I?

IMG_6863Tourism is myopic, living is the widening of a vantage point to include the lives of all those around you. To consider the heartbeat of every stranger that may never know, nor care to know yours, in a city that pulses with movement like the pumping of blood through your veins. I keep climbing to the tops of mountains thinking the farther up I go the more I will understand about this labyrinthine city. But what I am beginning to understand is the vantage point of the crow that cries to me. The juxtaposition of the highest trees to the dirty streets, and living unperturbed by elements battering up against me.

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You Found Me

Friday, August 30th, 2013

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The tremulous touch of God’s presence is the palpable essence of electricity in the air before lightning touches the barren earth and thunder roars across the sky. This was what I felt when I encountered you. The hair raising slowness of breath when one encounters the Divine. Yet you, the unassuming, the plain, the patchwork pattern of a human being, knew not what was hidden behind your graying cataract eyes. Could you possibly have known? Could it possibly have been you? Cross knitted eyebrows and deeply etched forehead disguised in the baggy weightless clothing of a man lost under his own skies; I found God.

I suppose it took me a while to get to this point. I looked and searched for where it was that I found you, made up my own stories or even pretended I never felt your touch, but now I see with eyes wide open when it was that I saw your face truly for the first time. It was here. Tel Aviv, Israel, lost in the whirlwind of pigeons taking flight, creatures finding their wings, that I first encountered the divine. It may sound silly or even slightly deranged, but it is true, maybe even the truest part of me, that has seen within the faces of ordinary men, the image from which we were created. Felt the lightnings grip grab hold of my heart strings and play my soul like a harp into the deafening thunder of life’s storm. This was the first.

Another day in Israel. I walked in a huge group of my peers and as we moved on from one place to the next I noticed the swarm. The ebb and flow of flight and earth, of nourishment and hallowed hollowness. A man stood in their midst throwing crumbs to the birds who encircled him. He, the host of these winged creatures, the eye of the storm. In the flight of the birds he looked up and gazed right at me. Out of the entire group of forty, I was the one he locked eyes with and I felt the staggering weight of a gaze I could not hold.  I thought him homeless, and when he stopped what he was doing to make his way to where I stood, I felt as if I could not breathe. That if I could hold my breath long enough, I could stop the world from spinning, could stop his feet from moving, but he knew the path he had to travel whether I willed it or not. I was afraid of the stranger who approached so directly, who stared deeply into my eyes without ever knowing me, but some how, unwavering and unquestionably he knew. I was afraid as he came so close, and I knew not what to do or where to turn. To shout? To retreat? To escape this force of nature bound in the humble being of this man. I did nothing. I stood still, wired by his electricity that only I seemed to see.

He came to me with open hands, he came to me and called me mother, sister, daughter, he called me home. He looked into my eyes and told me that here, here I would always have a home. He told me he would give me the shirt off his back. He told me that he had nothing, but would give me whatever I asked. He told me I would always have a place to rest my head. He told me that I was home. Why? Because we were family. Because we all were tied beyond the binding of blood, bound by our utter being. We are one, we all have the same Father, and he his son and I his daughter.

He did not even know my name, yet he offered me all he had and beyond that, he offered me what he knew would and always had belonged to me, love. He offered me the obvious, the object of my desire that I had time and time again always failed to see. An eternal love that was beyond me, beyond him into the electricity of non-being.

His gaze never left my eyes as he offered, as he gave, as he sacrificed, as he begged me to understand. I didn’t. Days, weeks, months later, I didn’t understand. But now, now I finally think I am beginning to understand what it was his aging eyes begged of me. He was asking me to come home.

I had long ago lost the way, found myself in a dark wood where the forward way was lost with no Virgil to guide me. I had wandered into the desolation of my own accord, blaming the world, blaming him, and not understanding that through it all and finally at the end of it all, it was Him begging me to come home.

He was not homeless. He had a home that was open and welcome to all who cared to stop and listen to his kind empathetic words. He was direct and almost frightening, but only to the eye that knew not what he was. Strength is frightening, especially when we are so weak, but that does not make it cruel. He seemed a beggar because he was. He was the father begging the son to come home. The mother begging for the life of her children. Begging, broken and bruised, he begged for me, he begged for you. If there be only one righteous, let them live. Let them live let them live.

I didn’t know it yet, but at that very moment the lightning flash of this encounter resurrected me, brought me back to life into this utterly new being. Brought to life in the eye of the storm, I have not yet found my way out of the darkness but with new life comes new strength to forge on into the great unknown. I can, I finally can, knowing that at the end of every road is my ever welcoming home.

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Observations from a New Vantage Point

Friday, June 14th, 2013

So I have been in my new home for a few days now and to avoid the stress of moving and adjusting to a new place I have taken to long periods of time just staring out of the windows in my room. The windows of my room are my favorite thing about my new home. One over looks the entire bay, the Berkeley Marina down below, the Golden Gate Bridge in the foggy distance level with my ever searching eyes. The other looks onto the Berkeley campus over the red thatched roofs of the castle like houses between my bedroom and campus. The campanile sits just beyond grasp but fully in view. I can hear the campanile ring out ever hour, so that I never loose myself in time.

From my windows and long periods of observation from these new vantage points I see a lot of weird and interesting things that captivate my attention for hours on end. Here is a small list of the observations I have made in the last few days.

  • Squirrels sit on the red thatched roofs and squeak across great distances at each other. I have no idea what it is they are trying to communicate so desperately.
  • A woman in a house near mine comes out of her house onto the front porch to clip her nails at least once a day. Her nails must grow pretty dang fast. It makes me wonder if she really even goes out to clip her nails or does she do it to avoid being inside the house? I will continue to watch.
  • There is a massive flock of crows that gather on the tree tops near the campanile, ever hour the chiming of the bells disturbs them and they all take flight like a great hurricane of movement. I can hear their cries from my bedroom.
  • There are really fat raccoons that live in my apartment complex. They grow fat on the waste of college students like me.
  • A girl next door, around sunset, will climb out her window onto her roof and sit there as the sun goes down. Depending on the day she will smoke a cigarette.
  • At night only a few lights come on in the houses near mine. I tried to communicate with them via flashlight, no response yet. I will keep trying.
  • The sun creeps through my window, crawling across the floor with agonizingly slow advancement until the sun sets and casts my walls with orange and red.
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Posted in Stories, Thoughts |

Happy Mother’s Day

Sunday, May 12th, 2013

Dear Mom,

You are my best friend, my travel buddy, my partner in crime, and the light of my life. I love you in more ways than words can express. I am sorry I can’t be there in person to tell you everything I have to say, but I can start here; Happy Mother’s Day.

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We have traveled the country together, long hours in the car that never got boring or tiresome because we always had something to talk about and even if we didn’t we both enjoyed the silence and the company of one another other. We have wandered down creek beds, climbed trees, fixed flat tires, run across so many different surfaces that I cannot even begin to think of all their names. And oh the places we have gone, the places you have showed me, enjoyed with me and the memories that I have of you, with you, that I will remember and cherish for the rest of my life.

Like the hellish hikes that we simultaneously horribly regret, yet remember with heart filling laughs even though it was horrible at the time. The adventures that failed, but led us to all new places and things.

I love the times when we can be silly, climbing trees, hijacking tractors in the deepest part of the Bryce Canyon, and shamelessly chasing down every roadside attraction we can find.
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Oh the places we have been. How many backdrops have we seen that belong in fairytales? How many times have we watched sunsets in places that are straight out of story books? How many times have I wished to always be back in the places we have been, while always looking forward to our next adventures?

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Caught between the wonderful life you have given me, lived in with me, and the story books found in photography shops or souvenir stores, you have always been there for me. The every faithful travel buddy, the worried mother, the excited best friend, you are everything that I love in life.

Jumping over rattlesnakes and standing waist deep in the Zion Narrows, you and I have been through everything, and I wouldn’t change anything about it.
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You have been there for me in the hardest moments, followed me down the most treacherous paths, squeezed yourself down corridors that seemed impassible just to show me it could be done.  You are incredible, you are super woman, you are my mother.
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I could never wish for anything more than the life you have given me, the oppurtunities I have been blessed to have with you. The coffee and beignets in New Orleans, the trolley car rides, the rivers we have stood at, the canyons we have overlooked, the wildlife we have gaped at, and the world you have shown me. There are too many memories for me to describe, too many things for me to talk about and how much I appreciate every single second of the time we have spent together.
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I love our family, I love the loving home you and Dad have given me, the loving upbringing and the support you have given me my entire life; even when I didn’t realize you were my biggest supporter and friend.
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You make me laugh like no one else I know. How many different ways can I say that I love you? I hope you know that without me ever having to say it. Even when I am away for months at a time, I hope the wind will carry my words to you and carry my love to you so that you always know you are cherished and appreciated.
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I wonder where we will go next, I wonder what is in store for us in the future.
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There are so many wonderful times in the past, but I know you and I have even more memories to be made in the future. Even if it isn’t on the road or out in the back country or by a river bed, we will always have the bond that is unbreakable, the bond between a mother and her daughter.
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The bond between best friends who know exactly how to make you smile and dance even in the most difficult moments.
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The bond between you and I will last the rest of our lives, as will the memories we have and the ones we have yet to make.

You are my inspiration, my hope, my love, my light. I love you mom more than words can say. I wish I could hug you and tell you in person, and I miss you all the time. You are such a wonderful mother and I hope you know that I thank God every day for giving me you.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom, I love you, I love you, I love you.

Your Eternally grateful and loving Daughter,

Monica

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Finding Fantasy in Reality

Wednesday, December 26th, 2012

Some where in the back of my mind I have always known I lived in an exceptional place, it just wasn’t often that I cared to appreciate it. I used to make up stories about adventures in far away lands and imagine myself in a thousand places, anywhere but home. The exciting and the extraordinary was always beyond that next mountain or underneath the crashing waves of the sea, but never did I look at the mountains or the ocean right in front of me.

This is not to say that I didn’t love growing up in Santa Cruz, because I did and still do, it just simply means I never saw the fantastical qualities that I dreamed of in the place where I lived my everyday life. I never realized the fairy circles in the redwoods, or the glint of the sun on the sea, the way the wind swept across grassy hillside like a fingers running through feather soft hair. The world I felt I had to create when I was younger, was the world I was already residing in, I just didn’t know it yet.

Maybe it was when I left for college, or maybe it has been a building wave that has been gathering for some time within me, all I know now is the overwhelming appreciation and awe I have for my home in Santa Cruz.

There is so much I love about Santa Cruz; I realize that I do not have to escape this place to find adventure or fantastical things, I just need to step out of my front door. That is why for Christmas we stuck around town and for our Christmas Day we went hiking along the Davenport Bluffs and then took in the stormy skies from the Santa Cruz Wharf. It is nice to take a vacation in your own town, to make the everyday new again in the most exciting of ways.

Look upon your world with new eyes and see what there is to find. You may just be surprised to behold the imaginary world you spent your whole life searching for.

 

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Reading Places

Friday, December 21st, 2012

I spent a lot of time this semester sitting in a library, neck craned, eyes strained, and brain drained. Even though these places are beautiful in their own majestic academic ways, with towering columns that have held up the burdening weight of university, I can’t help but feel closed in by four walls. There is so much outside those tall grandiose windows that let light drift gently in to illuminate the library walls.

I always sit and watch as the library is lit by the dazzling color of sunset as I sat with my textbooks splayed out in front of me like the casualties of war, thinking of the beauty outside the rows and rows of books that lined the world around me. Yet, even as the colors began to fade to a darker shade and slip farther and farther away, I would remain. Instead of taking a breath and leaving behind my books for a moment, I would dive right back in, but my air never lasted sufficiently. It felt like drowning because it was. Diving back down without a replenishing breath of air is a scary thing, yet almost everyone in that library with me was doing it. Gasping like a fish out of water, watching with wide glassy eyes the cast off colors of a sunset sitting right out side, but like the shadows in Plato’s Cave, we tried to draw real light from only the shadows of reality.

I am tired of the shadows of reality, and I have been growing tired because I have drained these shadows dry and am ready, craving for more. So I have abandoned my beautiful little box for the outside world. I have been drinking in the color of every sunset, and finding every place that one can fit themselves only to sit down and read. The familiar is full of fascinating places to explore that function just as well as a library seat for a place to rest my book. Whether it means climbing rooftops or climbing mountains just for a nice place to cross my legs and lay open a book infront of me, I have been exploring in the name of reading. Even if but for a short while to crack open the spine of a book while over looking the Golden Gate Bridge, or just sitting underneath the shade of a great redwood, or sitting on a cliff above the tumultous sea, I am expanding. I am ready for new horizons, if you need me, I will be at the cusp of the ordinary, waiting.

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