A Colossal Reflection

Journal Entry from 6/18/19 – Rome, Italy

Yesterday, we went to the Forum, Colosseum, and Palatine Hill.  It was a long, hot day full of crowds, wandering, and wondering.

When we were looking down into the Forum from the Palatine Hill, Mitch pointed out a pair of green doors on a church much higher than the base of the ancient columns in front of it.  Apparently, the church was built much later, after the Forum had been mostly buried under centuries of rubble and neglect.  He said it was even referred to as the “cow field” for a while, years after being the center of Roman life.  They only began excavating it all slowly, but surely, a few centuries ago.

Mitch said they’ve done a lot more to plant grass and continue the excavations since he first started coming to Rome 25 years ago.  To be honest, I don’t remember much about the Forum from when I last came, other than it’s position between the Colosseum and the “Wedding Cake” monument.

When we walked on to the Colosseum, and were finally let in at our appointed time, we were already weary and dusty.  Mitch and I had been up since 4:45 a.m. and Grace’s knee was struggling after all the stairs from the Palatine Hill.  We walked through it all relatively quickly, but not before seeing an exhibit on the various iterations of the Colosseum.

While starting as a symbol of Rome’s grandeur in the 1st century A.D., full of gladiator combat and man vs. beast tests of will, it began to decline with alongside the might of Rome.  Over time, fires, earthquakes, and raiding took their toll on it’s once grand physique.  The last recorded events in the ancient Colosseum were in the 5th century.

After that, the Colosseum took on many iterations.  It housed a church and later was sanctified as a shrine to martyred Christians.  It was a giant graveyard.  It was converted into markets and rented housing.  It served briefly as a fortified castle.  And now, it is being gently preserved as a symbol of Rome’s rich history as a great empire.

I saw an Italian mother talking to her toddler daughter about a fully decorated model of the Colosseum at the exhibit.  It made me wonder what it’s like to come from a country, and a city really, that once dominated the known world.  How does that impact your sense of history?  How does that impact your sense of self?  How does that make you feel about the current state of Italy and it’s place in the world?  Do you wish you were born during Rome’s heyday?

What will be our Colosseums, or will we have any?  And what kind of lives will our cherished places lead long after we are gone, and what lives had they led long before we were there?

It also made me wonder about the period of time and place into which I’ve been born.  How will future Americans remember our world and the choices we’ve made as a dominant power?  What will be our Colosseums, or will we have any?  And what kind of lives will our cherished places lead long after we are gone, and what lives had they led long before we were there?

The Forum and Colosseum were a great reminder that time is the great equalizer.  Each people, or place, will have their day in the sun, as well as their time to be forgotten.  Our young country has yet to learn what the more mature ones have learned.  History is about surviving and adapting to the changes and challenges around us.  Just like the Colosseum has been mighty and humbled many times, likely we too shall be.

Papa, Can You Hear Me?

From Journal Entry on 6/16/19 – Rome, Italy

Today we went to see the pope’s regular Sunday address, rather fitting when you think about the fact that it’s Father’s Day.  We double-checked his schedule to ensure he would be speaking, then we headed off on our 30 min. walk to the Vatican.

It was hot today, close to 90 degrees, and I could feed the extra sunscreen I applied making my arms and legs sticky.  I anticipated great crowds with us standing in the middle of the colonnade’s arms before St. Peter’s, a sweaty, devout mass ready for mass.  On the way, we all bought water and the girls bought fans for a euro that were lined with faux lace and decorated with landmarks from Rome.  They literally said “souvenir” on them, as if there were any doubt, and Emily’s started to come apart before we even entered the Vatican.

We had to cross the Bridge of Angels before passing the fortress where the pope retreated during the sieges of Rome, the Castel Sant’Angelo.   The last angel on the bridge held a spear in a fearsome pose, as if guarding the fortress by himself.  My mind started asking a million questions.  How did the fortress stay in the church’s hands if the Vatican area close by fell?  Would they just hunker down there and beg other Catholic countries to come save them?  How much food did they keep there regularly, and for how long could they hold out?  Mitch later showed us the passage the pope would use to escape to the fortress from the Vatican, high above the crowds below.

Then, we entered the colonnade.  Surprisingly, there was no security like we were told to expect, which should’ve been our first clue something was amiss.  There were also fewer people than I expected, with only about 1/5 of it full.  Mitch told us that the pope speaks from a window to the right, so we chose to sit in the shade of the colonnade on the left.

There was such a fascinating mix of people there: tourists interested in the spectacle that is the papacy, who wore shorts and tank tops and sandals; devout religious pilgrims from many countries coming to hear the words of their beloved leader, dressed in long pants and dresses and fine headdresses; beggars and the lame who came to find blessings amid the religious crowds, just hoping for some crumbs from the table, dressed in rage and bandages, holding crutches and cups for alms.

We all waited together in anticipation, each hoping for a different kind of blessing awaiting us as the noon bells tolled.  We watched the windows high above as the sounds reverberated throughout the piazza.  As the bells began to fade in the distance, we grew antsy.  Something was wrong, for nothing was happening.  We watched.  We waited.  Still nothing.

We all waited together in anticipation, each hoping for a different kind of blessing awaiting us as the noon bells tolled.  We watched the windows high above as the sounds reverberated throughout the piazza.  As the bells began to fade in the distance, we grew antsy.  Something was wrong, for nothing was happening.  We watched.  We waited.  Still nothing.

Mitch and I double-checked different websites again to ensure there was a scheduled address.  Sure enough, June 16th was on the docket, but still nothing.  The realization that hit us began to wash over the crowed, and groups began to leave with long faces.  What happened?  Was he sick?  Why was there no announcement that he wasn’t coming?

I felt like a girl who had gotten all dressed up for the prom, only to have her date never show.  I guess I was more excited to see the pope than I realized based on the level of disappointment I was feeling.  I’m not Catholic, and I know enough history to have a very healthy skepticism about the office.  However, part of me still wanted to believe that this man was somehow going to have a holy presence that true spiritual leaders often do.

But then I realized that he is, in fact, just a man.  Just like every religious leader I’ve known.  Just like every father I’ve known.  Imperfect.  Flawed.  Human.  We put too much stock in these fathers, holy or not, and force them up on lonely pedestals, shocked when they have trouble staying up there successfully.  It’s unfair of us to demand it of them, or of them to demand from us.

The pope seems built from a system of separating him from his people.  Just look at the high window from which he speaks or the fortress to protect him.  What the church, and the world, needs is a father who walks beside them as an example, mentor, and support, not a man speaking to them from a gilded tower.  But did we build that tower and gild it and place him up there?  It gave me pause.

Later in the day, when the nine hour time difference made it appropriate, I called my dad.  He seemed surprised to hear from me.  “Are you in Rome?  You sound like you’re next door.”  We had our normal 2-3 minute chat before he handed the phone off to my mother who was itching for her turn.  He told me to keep posting pictures so he could see them on Instagram right before he jumped off.

It made me thankful to hear his voice today.  It might not have been the pope, but it was a more important father in my life for sure.  I thought about Mitch and wondered if Father’s Day still hurts him only a few years after his dad passed.  I didn’t have the heart to ask, and just tried to be extra sympathetic today.  For me, at least, when there was no holy father’s voice today, my dad could fill that void.

Getting Reacquainted With Rome

Journal Entry from 6/13/19 – Rome, Italy

I woke up this morning after 5 1/2 hours of sleep in the last 36 as you would expect – begrudgingly.  It was only 5:15 a.m., but a seagull, sounding both determined and desperate in equal measure, had perched outside on the terrace.  Maybe it was from hunger, or trying to feed her young, or wanting to find her way back to the sea, but her calls were clear and haunting.  Later, she was joined by a cacophony of other birds beginning their morning rounds – some more pleasant than others.  So, I wearily joined them in their greeting of the day, a strange role reversal since Mitch was still asleep.

I have always been puzzled with Mitch’s preoccupation with Rome, having only visited once over 20 years ago, and being a Florence man myself.  Rome seemed too big, too unorganized, too unsure of how to be both ancient and modern with grace.  It seemed clunky and overly proud, gilded with a religious smugness that flew in the face of the pious religion I respected.  It was also more harsh and barren terrain than I expected for an Eternal City.  So I came back expecting to enjoy the food and wine – and especially the gelato – and trying to go in with an open mind in letting Mitch attempt unfolding his favorite city’s mysteries before me, all the while knowing I’m a Florence man and always will be.  But, seeing him be giddy and inspired would ensure that it was all time well spent.

My first surprise happened on the drive in from the airport.  There were copious amounts of oleander, both white and pink, all along the highway into the city.  It was like a carpet laid down the center median ushering us in (and when it was time, out) of this grand place.  Later, when walking through the city, it dawned on me that I was last here in November, not June, and so I saw a very different place.  The Rome of summer is vibrant with color.  Green ivy crawls up the sides of posh hotels and ancient columns.  Bright red and pink flowers can be found throughout the city decorating window boxes of third floors, hanging off of black wrought iron terraces.  Yellow flowers punctuate the walk along the ancient Forum roads.

Rome is alive in a way I didn’t remember from before, or maybe I am alive at 40 in a way I wasn’t at 19, and so I can now appreciate her.  At 19, her winding streets felt untidy, like the inner workings of a messy mind – unplanned, unkempt, not ready for company.  Now, they seem charming and adaptive as I watch the subtle dance between pedestrians and traffic, cobble stones and smooth pavement, old and new.

I now understand that Rome held secrets I wasn’t ready for at 19.  Life can’t be planned like the gridded layout of a flat Oklahoma town.  Having a rich history means sometimes tearing down or building around the old, appreciating the ruins from your life that serve as reminders of better times to inspire hope, or of darker times to keep you from repeating past mistakes.

As we looked over ruins where Julius Caesar was murdered, I wonder what my ruins are, left as they were in the past?  As we looked at modern construction built on and around the ancient, I wondered where I’ve mended and rebuilt the broken places, instead of tearing them all down.

Rome merely winked as she continued whispering her secrets into my ear.  She knew that to truly understand her was to see her through the eyes of age and experience, and that is why she is eternal.