Are tummies full on delicious food we strolled in the rain to the Duomo, up steep medieval curves of the old walled in city of Siena. We knew it would not be open this late at night but we just wanted to catch a glimpse of the striped church we had loved 11 years ago.
As we stood in the majesty of its courtyard looking up at the facade in the inky, blackness of night I felt tingles down my spine. I love cathedrals. I always have. I love that humans came up with the idea to build giant, gawdy spiritual elevating buildings on honor of deity. I love that they are buildings designed to make you feel awe struck, small in a huge universe and connected to something greater then yourself. I love that I can stare and stare and stare and still not see all the art and detail crafted into a building that took 500 years to construct. That this building started in the mind of one person, the spark of an idea. That the folks that came up with the original plans hardly ever saw the project to completion. I want to think big like that about my projects. That projects don't have to be done quickly that I might not even be able to see them till the end and expect that they will be completed by the next generation. I think cathedral makers our lovers of life, big dreamers and have faith and trust that they could leave a mark on the world, help shape a culture with their work. That is the kind of artist I aspire to be.
There we were, standing under an umbrella in the halo of light of a near by street lamp, Honeybee reading aloud to me from our guide book about the construction of this ancient Catholic temple. That's when we we started to see people walking up the stairs and pacing in front of the closed doors. Honeybee dismissed them as silly tourists who did not know the church would be closed at night. I thought there might be something more to it. I had us move closer, the people were speaking Italian, these were not tourists, these were Sienese families. Then the miraculous happened. The church doors opened up. We reluctantly and giddily followed inside with the other folks, uncertain we were supposed to go in. No one stopped us. I tried to walk as if I belonged there, poorly holding in my excitement of getting a chance to go into our Duomo. As we walked down the side hall trying to remain inconspicuous I realized this was midnight mass! This was the Saturday before Easter Sunday and we were some of the first attendees of the late service they would hold that night. I had not done midnight mass sense I lived in Seattle. A friend was going through a Catholic phase and I had attened this service one Easter at a small, modern church near our house. I had not thought about going to anything like this sense.
What luck! Here we were in one of the most outrageous and beautiful buildings in the world on a holy night where we practically had the place to ourselves. Most of the building was not even lit up, it was like being in a museum after hours, I was taken back to one of my favorite childhood books "From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler." We explored quietly, admiring the giant Easter Lily display on the alter, the Duccio fresco's in back of the high alter. Even the creepy busts lining the inside of the Duomo ceiling, the faces of all the popes in Italy staring back at us.
Services started at 11pm, we were given candles and a thick order of service filled with the stories of Christ's resurrection in Latin. We sat in a pew ready for the priest to begin. After the choir sang their first hymn, everyone got up and started walking to the back of the cathedral. At the front of the procession was the priest and alter boys holding one large candle. Not only did they walk all the way to the back of the cathedral they stepped outside and this band of faithful Catholics surrounded the priest in the sprinkly, spring darkness of Saturday night. I turned my head and the whole cathedral was dark again, all the lights were turned off. The Catholic chanting began, call and response in Italian. Honebee and I hummed along. The priest held the large candle in the middle of the circle, he took long golden pokers and stuck them into the top, bottom and sides of the candle, each time he placed a poker we would chant something, honoring that moment. He lit the candle and passed the light to each follower holding our candles in a personal, sacred quiet.
The priest and alter boys parted the crowd like the red sea and started the procession back into the church. As we turned to follow in the party stopped. A chant filled our throats that rose to soprano heights then the lights came on filling the tiny space our bodies inhabited in the glory of this Duomo. We walked along filling each crevice of the church with light bringing Christ back from the dead. We re awakened the space, fresh with raindrops in our hair and song in our hearts.
We sat through some of the very long and droning service, but eventually had to go back to our room in the town, to sleep and let the beauty and magic of the night soak in.
On our walk back home we passed other smaller churches lit up with the welcoming news of Christ's rebirth. The glowing halo of a Madonna welcomed us home.
