Buona Pasqua! Easter in Italia part 2

There we were, in front of my favorite church in Italy. The Duomo of Siena. We had just finished a traditional slow foods Tuscan style meal at a jam packed restaurant, elbow to elbow at a long table with every kind of family bumping into us. A true Italian delight to be able to smell and stare at all the food you did not order as well as enjoy the succulence of your own meal. The main thing I remember was a fava bean soup that had bread in it as well as some delicious cured meat. 

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.

 

Buona Pasqua! Easter in Italia part 1

--> As he jostled the key into the lock on the slick, green painted, wood of our doorway Josepy said "Don't miss the Luminaire procession tomorrow night in honor of Good Friday. "It was Good Friday, the streets were open and empty." The lyrics of a Coco Rosie song mumble through my head. Luminaire, the words spark memories of hand crafted lanterns in the shape of fish and other animals lit from within and marched down the walk ways of young, Olympia streets to ultimately surround the small lake over looking the capital. I was giddy with the news. What would a luminaire procession be like in Italy? How lucky we were to find ourselves in a pretty seaside small town on this momentous night.

Half way through dinner at a small fish restaurant I heard the whispers of chanting on the wind. It was pouring rain, we asked the waiter if the luminaire would still happen in the rain? He assured us it would. The owner of the eatery kept coming in and out as excited as a puppy waiting for the sun to go down and the procession to start. Finally we heard the clang of a bell. We wiped our plates clean and headed out down this village's one main street. We were greeted by the shiny backs of Italian villagers, huddled under raincoats and umbrellas in small groupings all with their eyes locked on the thin pathway through the middle of the road. It was dark, wet and magic. Suddenly the man next to us broke out into a choral song in thick Italian, five women surrounding him joined in, we mumbled along as if we knew the song. As we hummed a small procession could be seen at the top of the hill. A ghostly looking gathering of white paper covered candles held by most of the town’s people slowly processing down the hill singing along in the strong and beautiful Catholic hymnal music. They would move forward a few steps then stop and sing, a new verse each time. Then stop and repeat. It seemed that the verses corresponded to Jesus journey to the cross or being taken back to the cave where he had his ultimate resurrection.

As the procession got closer we could see village boys dressed in white hoods and robes, I saw them as symbolizing the Holy Ghost. They walked in front of a small entourage of young girls dressed in white carrying a casket holding a crucifix. Jesus’s body was exposed to the chill and rain of the night. Looking down at his body in the rain stirred a sad emotion within me. To be present with the pain he experienced was eye opening and sorrowful.

We made our way to their tiny church right on the water. Compared to the Gothic Renaissance churches of the rest of Italy, it was simple and almost barren. Being rebuilt from a terrible storm a few years earlier they had only been able to rebuild the pews and alter in front. We gathered into the damp and frankincense scented church and sat on the hard, familiar, wooden pews. The service was short, consisting of many calls and response we could not translate but hum along with as we had in the street. We sang a little and then it was time to go.

 The town folks gathered in a line down the middle to give their blessings to the recently processed crucifix of their church. I walked with them, making my way to Jesus. I did not know what to expect, just that it made sense to give my blessings to this holy man on this day. When it was my turn I went up with an older women. She put her hands on his head, she cradled him like a newborn baby, kissing his forehead and holding his hand. Watching her comfortable and sentimental gestures with this statue made my heart melt. I put my hand in his thin, glossy, statue hand and stroked his cheek like I would my daughter. Tears welled in my eyes, I remembered how much I had once loved Jesus, and I forgave him in that moment. I forgave a hard childhood, my anger at the Catholic Church, the concept of original sin. I forgave all the shit people put on him and do in his name. I just filled my heart with love. I kissed his cheek and left that church feeling more alive, like I had turned a leaf in my adult life. Making peace with Jesus.