corso tintori.

Our last whole Sunday allotted a pause in finals cramming for one last initiated roomie-tea. We sat around the snowflake in Maeg and I’s room as laughs quieted and the silence spoke for us all. Then, as we watched the dream of our semester through Maegan’s artwork, tears began to fall…

What has this semester truly been?

After watching Maegan’s stop motion summation of this season, we decided to praise each other on paper. Our few “last words” quickly spawned into life-giving dancing. The dance was Terra’s present-it’s how she talks-and it was so clearly understood. As she spoke, she told of Maegie’s constant love-her mesmerizing spirit that we all draw from. She accounted for my heart, almost prophetically, offering the beats of her own to fill its weakness. She knelt before Maya, the greatest servant of us all. She welcomed Emily’s openness, sassed with Isla’s transparency, un-layered Hil’s spirit and defined Ethna’s loyalty.

And then she embraced her deep-loving, soul-friend, Brooke.

Favorite memories and untold stories evolved into deep affirmation-moments void of any catch. Genuine, pure love and called-out spirits with freshly aided understanding of what we each saw in and loved about each other.

As we recounted just how much we enriched each other’s lives, I met Maeg’s understanding gaze with a shared feeling of sweetness and heaviness all at once. There were no falsified promises of reunion, only a mutually residing, quiet hope.

I will never forget this night, as I continue to see it as a revealing benchmark in my life. It was a night that could not be captured by cameras or videos, and cannot even be captured in words.

Yet, as the Little Prince says, it is the unseen secret underneath that makes something special.

Chaotic closure sealed our final weekend, yet from that sacred Sunday onward, we walked through it together. Literally all in one room – moved mattresses, piled bodies, talks and dances – all in desperate attempt to absorb what was left from each other. And as I wrestled with the intense reflection on my days since August, I suddenly grasped a hint of what this semester was about. As if a faint but penetrating whisper uttered the simple reminder- “It’s not about you.”

And as I accepted that statement, “It is not about me” the threads of other semester thoughts strung into accord….

I re-understood the sacrifice of the cost of following Christ- the dying to myself: It’s not about me.

I re-realized the importance of relationship and community. The unexpected yet deeply intricate shared life that sanded and sanctified and served through the surrounding comrades: It’s not about me.

I re-wrestled through a need for kenosis-to surrender all my vain hopes and expectations of these last moments, allowing room for the Maker to unravel each minute in Divine Design: It’s not about me.

So as Maegan and I walk away from this place- this intangible place we will never be able to return to- we accept the ironic banner “It is not about me.”

May we be Transcendently led in this difficult claim through the Christmas season and whatever “next” awaits us….

Thank you for your prayers. This semester was more than we could have ever imagined.

awaited Noel.

Waiting and waiting, a unified anticipation-

Of the drawing familiarity, breaching culture and country and family,

Of the commercial hustle against the subdued tempo of routine,

And the muted bell at the entrance of a drab department store door.

Waiting and waiting, a childlike gleam-

Of stockings and sweaters and reindeer and wreaths.

An uninterrupted hum of a carol, and the reassurance of its words,

Shared over sleigh-shaped cookies and gingerbread houses.

Waiting and waiting, a subconscious countdown-

For the benchmark date that halts all transitions,

And offers reflection of 365 days lived fully, or fully survived…

Though the candied calendar only measures 25.

Waiting and waiting, as Winter raps on Falls door-

Prompting the effortless downslide into the celebrated season.

Waning temperatures met with warming sentiments,

And the shiny wrapped shoebox on its way to Niger.

Waiting and waiting, do you see what I see?-

With each florescent twinkle or warm chimney burn,

Growing and glowing larger with gaining cheer,

Full in the streets, composing the lightest nights of the year.

Waiting and waiting, a heightened nostalgia-

For the grandfatherly tales of ‘how it used to be’.

A return to traditions: the old and the new, ensue

A reunion of cinnamon nutmeg and peppermint pine in Papa’s mug.

Waiting and waiting, a formal appeal-

To the fading days of school, and pausing labor of vocation,

And the yearly service of miniature wax torches,

As the white overspill melts into the recycled candlestick net.

Waiting and waiting, an intangible resound

For the advent of the MORE.

In the layered notions, in the hushed moments, 

The weary world rejoices.

A sacred stillness, inevitable, of desperate need fulfilled,

In universal understanding and resonating agreement

Of goodwill toward men, and inspired hope for Peace on earth.

Buon Natale a Firenze!

vineyard interview.

His name is Aldobrandino, but I call him “Aldo,” like his friends and family do. He lives on the Ghirlandaio family vineyard, in the Tuscan countryside near San Gimignano. After 87 years, this inheritance rests completely under his charge, and he proudly leads me through his cultivated aisles of interconnected vines and enormous grape clusters. After a settling afternoon of effortless dialogue and generous samplings, both of the dark juicy fruit and their fermented elixir, I route our conversation to a continually burning question…

Aldo: The harvest is good this year. We always do our best, but you just never know with Her… (Aldo faintly gestures to the sky and smiles)

Tired, we sit down in the middle of a row between thick vines.

Aldo: Rhythm. It is only a rhythm. We always do the best we can, and respond to the elements we cannot control…sometimes we lose more crops than we want. But there’ll be more next season. Grapes keep growing.  –Here, have a few more.

Me: Thanks. They’re so delicious...  (He smiles.)

Aldo: And if I lose too much, I know my family will help me out, just like I helped Paulo last October when he produced little harvest.

(From an earlier conversation, I know that “family” really means the surrounding farms and farmers. The Ghirlandaios live in a deeply interdependent community…

After a short lull, I decide to be blunt.)

Me: Aldo, I have been so many places this semester… But when I travel, I always think about the same kind of question, and I wish I could ask it to everyone I see. Maybe you have your own answer. But after all these years, what would you say our purpose is?

Aldo: (he chuckles warmly, then finally speaks after a drawn-out silence)

…. I’ve been doing this whole life. Just like my father, and his father, and his father. This…I love. (he leans over and gently grabs a vine)

See these leaves? They’re young. Soon, we’ll have to cut them off, though, along with the grapes. But the roots (pointing to the dirt) these roots are older than me! Much older. Molto vecchio. They know my great Nonno, and I have only met his picture. The one hanging in the kitchen, did you see it?

ME: Yeah, I think so.

Aldo: Well he was good friends with these roots. They’ve been here forever. They hold the whole crop together. And even when the young grapes grow up, and get pressed into our vino, you can still taste the roots and soil. These roots are important…to everything.

Me: Interesting… I like that. Have you ever left the country?

Aldo: I have.  Yes, I left around 1941 for about two years. I left these beautiful hills to fight in the war. That is how I met Elizabeth. (he looks at me for the first time and smiles) But I never stopped missing this place. My home. My soil. My Nonno’s soil.

Me: …But I heard that lots of people WANT to leave… just like I did. From my town. I wanted to come here, to see another world. I heard they sometimes feel trapped in these fields, and in these villages. I thought you might feel the same way…

Aldo: (he’s already shaking his head) Bah… they do. A lot of my amici could not wait to enlist. All they wanted to do was leave-to get out! And I enjoyed my time in other countries… But I wanted to come back, too. And I wanted to bring her with me. She didn’t understand why for a long time… but now she gets it. Now she loves these roots too. And she’s made them better.

I look at the flimsy sun-stained cap that now rests in his lap, then up at the tiny tractor standing in a field beyond an opening in the lush “hallway” where we sit. These images in my line of sight only seemed to emphasize the tense juxtaposition of my thoughts….

Me: But things are changing, they always are. I bet that’s why people want to leave. Like the kids I saw in Pitigliano. They want to get out and see what else is going on. They want to keep up. They want to figure out what bigger life is….somewhere else…

Aldo: That is true. And Roberto is the same. Roberto, my son-I hope for you to meet him. He is always asking your same questions with his eyes. He does not want to live here forever.

Me: Will you let him go?

Aldo: Of course! It is not bad to journey. My grapes travel in their bottles all the way to America. But they take the flavor of their roots with them. Without the roots, they will not grow correctly. They will not make sense. Without the roots, they will be no different from your grape juice, and when you drink them, you will only think of your grocery store, not my Nonno. (he sighs and picks up some dirt that runs back through his fingers) These roots are important.

Me: I’m starting to see that…

 After wiping his hand on is faded blue button-up shirt, he takes a deep breath and sits back. Then, patting my head he says,

Aldo: Start with your roots.

So life is about roots, the reason you are who you are, and where you are. It’s about adapting to change, yet valuing the foundation of tradition. It’s about a shaping of character, and contentment in simplicity.

However, I still wonder at (and even envy) this resolve.

I’m not sure that Aldo’s words of wisdom will subdue internal longing to seek and explore that forever sits inside. 

But for now, I don’t think it has to…

die way.

"I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. What other answer would suffice? Only words, words; to be led out to battle against other words."
-Till We Have Faces, C.S. Lewis

again Merton.

"Only the man who has had to face despair is really convinced that he needs mercy. Those who do not want mercy never seek it. It is better to find God on the threshold of despair than to risk our lives in a complacency that has never felt the need of forgiveness. A life that is without problems may literally be more hopeless than one that always verges on despair." 
— Thomas Merton 

desire.

"My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going, I do not see the road ahead of me, I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore, I will trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone." — Thomas Merton

the Way.

We defied all preconditioned odds of Barcelona by actually catching up on sleep, instead of sacrificing it. Jesse booked a chic apartment in a quiet, near-coast area of loco Barcelona that Maeg and I schemed to replicate for our future abode. The 3-day journey wound through Gaudi monuments (including famous Park Guell and La Sagrada Familia), a chocolate museum, cathedrals, street performers, parks and the beach. Maeg fulfilled a personal mecca to finally see Gaudi’s work, while I wandered through a country I’d studied since 8^th grade, basking in each attempt at “translator.” While paella, sangria, papas bravas and otras tapas satisfied all Espana-cuisine cravings, the Vampire Weekend concert equally quenched the semester-thirst for live music.

Sunday morning began at 3 a.m. with a walk to a bus station, followed by a drive to an airport, a flight to a train station, a train ride to Florence and a walk home 30 minutes before our Renaissance history presentation. Thankfully, we had enough coins in our pockets to steal 30 min. off an “E-Point” airport computer, to Wikipedia information for our noon project. Nothing like a 5 a.m. international cram session.

As our last Narnia-esque adventure came to close, thoughts from two worlds reeled their familiar images through my head. (I now agree with Maegan in crowning 4 a.m. as the peak-processing hour.) But as my mind scurried around just about everyone and everything I’ve encountered in 91 days, I tripped on the unexpectedly weighted question of, “what really matters?”

Psalm 10 possesses a startling line in David’s description of the prideful man, as he says “in all his thoughts there is no room for God.”

Too true did this accusation resonate with my introspective morning, and I found little openness to His filling.

In a kenotic response to surrender the masses of life equations flooding sacred space in our hearts, Maeg and I hope to examine the past few months and grapple with important questions throughout December. Have we allowed Him to truly transform our inmost beings, in full? What will remain, divinely solidified in our inconsistent characters, when the European memories and experiences fall to the wayside? Who has He led in and out of our 4-month journey and for what reasons? Do we truly trust Him with the upcoming unknowns, especially after His manifested faithfulness in this season?

Surely, we can acknowledge evidence of His cultivation of foundational layers for our “nexts.” But with one month left, we’re challenged to finish this race.

Prayer for Maegan and I:

“You have made known to me the path of life;

You will fill me with joy in your presence”

For the Lord truly has remade Himself known to us, both in intimate purposes for our individual souls, and in ultimate purposes for His glory. 

Yet as we continue to step forward, pray for a Spirit-empowered ability to keep living IN the questions, and joyfully remember that the Path of Life, the Way, is only in Him. 

good.

"But in this world there is too much ugliness and horror.
So there must be, somewhere, goodness and truth.
And that means somewhere God must be."
-Czeslaw Milosz

"moats and boats and waterfalls, alleyways and pay-phone calls... i've been everywhere with you"

she said.

She said “night train,” and I got excited. Not just letter-in-the-mail kind of excited, but REAL, win-the-lottery excitement, with only a slight twinge of concern. After a missed train falling among other failed attempts, fate left us no option but to take the parent-forbidden night train. Not only did we cross the line of defiance in this decision, but, more importantly, we were going to fulfill my age-old, romantic idea of traveling Europe in a sleeper car, by night. The seemingly epic realization of this movie-like scenario fueled my thoughts, and immediately, I prepared my mentality for battle. My imagination raced through cartoon images of sinister gypsies lurking in cabin hallways, and of dangerous co-passengers to whom we would be forced to share a compartment with. Even after the father-like conductor placed us safely in a quad-bolted, secure room, I didn’t let my guard down nor my thoughts subdue. Every peculiar screech or shuffle outside our fastened door offered new material for my over-active, thrill-set mind. Eyes peeled to catch any outside glimpse of a foe at each Slovakian border-crossing and two close friends in shelved-beds above me, the 7-hour voyage marked a climax for my European travels thus far. What an escapade.

She said “night train,” and immediately the felt weight of a daylong hesitation seemed to hover. From nixed plan to nixed plan since 9 a.m., the growing concern of the last-resort endeavor loomed in her conscience. She had promised their mother she would offer a savvy opinion in any compromising situation. Now, the friends seemed to have no choice but take the banned night-train to Prague. Though she worried little of her own safety, resting in a long and successful history of questionable scenarios, the potential perils for three female Americans inevitably existed. With a “make-the-best-of-it” mentality, she prepared her mind to navigate the ensuing prospective for disaster. Yet after boarding the train and quickly being offered a “safe room” from the friendly conductor, her day-high pile of apprehension instantly diminished. Relieved from the alleviated burden of responsibility, she could sit back on her fold-out wall cot, above the pajama-geared lady below, and enjoy a restful night of cherished time with two friends; the focus of her travel in the first place. What a relief.

She said “night train,” to let the others know their final verdict. She neither felt excitement nor concern at her own words, however. Yes, the night train had been warned against. Yes, night-travel proved possibly perilous. But she had traveled this way before. And plus, “safety in numbers,” right? The only miniscule feeling that carried any significance in her mind pertained to her mother, and the account she would later have to relay. But even such a duty mattered little at this point. So numb were her feelings, and so drained was her brain from the 9-hour chaos of decision-making and dead-ends, that she no longer possessed the slightest leftovers of emotion. She, the appointed “travel agent” of the trip, only cared that her friends make it from point-A to point-B. And then to point-C, once arrived in Prague. After steering through schedule-shambles at the Budapest train station, she could’ve train hopped and felt ok about it. Thus, the conductor’s guidance to a “better” cabin only seemed appropriate. And as she sat on her  “bunk,” seemingly without comment about the day’s pandemonium or her cousin’s over-eager enthusiasm, she began to plot out the groups’ next steps. What a headache.

17th Century Nun Prayer.

Lord, Thou knowest better than I know myself, that I am growing older and will someday be old. Keep me from the fatal habit of thinking I must say something on every subject and on every occasion. Release me from craving to straighten out everybody’s affairs. Make me thoughtful but not moody; helpful but not bossy. With my vast store of wisdom, it seems a pity not to use it all, but Thou knowest Lord that I want a few friends at the end.

Keep my mind free from the recital of endless details; give me wings to get to the point. Seal my lips on my aches and pains. They are increasing, and love of rehearsing them is becoming sweeter as the years go by. I dare not ask for grace enough to enjoy the tales of others’ pains, but help me to endure them with patience.

I dare not ask for improved memory, but for a growing humility and a lessing cocksureness when my memory seems to clash with the memories of others. Teach me the glorious lesson that occasionally I may be mistaken.

Keep me reasonably sweet; I do not want to be a Saint – some of them are so hard to live with – but a sour old person is one of the crowning works of the devil. Give me the ability to see good things in unexpected places, and talents in unexpected people. And, give me, O Lord, the grace to tell them so.

AMEN

continued.

...Eastern Europe met our intrigue with unique architecture, interesting food, colorful parks and perceivable scarring of the still-recent communistic recovery. The residual aura of oppression hung in a contrasting tension between buildings and people-the chic new structures symbolizing a younger generations’ aim to “move on” and “westernize,” contrasting the bullet-holed stack of flats with windows full of elderly faces, longing to re tell a piece of their painfully haunting history. Unfortunately, anticipated gypsy attacks never occurred. Other than the peculiar noises heard outside our quad-bolted cabin door during our forbidden night train ride to Prague, I decided the eerie gypsy world doesn’t actually exist.  Beyond the overall flawless execution of this 6 day trip, the 10 hours of travel-attempt shambles and interesting hostel experiences in Room 101 of the Czech Inn merely solidified Maegy’s fore-trip prediction: “Adventure only begins with something goes wrong.”

Needless to say, we enjoyed Starbucks at least 7 times. Thanks for being a good sport, Steph.

Halloween topped every previous year, with a FREE five–course Italian feast at Jesse’s restaurant in Bergamo. Thanks to owner Filippo’s love-fueled generosity, we enjoyed prestigious pasta dishes, breads, cheeses, meats, reserve wines, French champagnes and deserts. After a tour of the entire restaurant, Filippo gladly offered us the rest of our 2005 Chianti reserve and large jar of home made “secret spice” to take home. Candy  and pumpkins just wont cut it anymore…

Speaking of holidays....Christmastime feels near. As much as I enjoy the downslide into my absolute favorite season and all its nostalgic comfort, I cant help but dig my heals in the ground a little more stiffly for now: a futile attempt to slow down the inevitable pull of waning time. Nevertheless, I’m still mentally embracing the upcoming Holy season, listening to tons of Christmas music with my headphones (the only place I’m allowed to thus far.)

Discussion of "community" has been the subject at large lately…in thought, in prayer and in conversation.  Sifting to define and understand its priority and structure, in our lives now and in future preparation, I am thankful for this common theme in learning, and even more grateful for pilgrim hearts to process it with.

Above all, we praise God for His Divine Providence in every pocket of this semester, and the slow unveiling of our eyes to recognize all the miniscule-but-mighty pieces of it…

Have to fight, have to fly, have to crow.

to be continued.

Autumn finally arrived, and after putting up with a few winter-esque rainy days, we have comfortably settled into the sunny, sweater-and-scarf wearing climate. (Adequately equipped with supplies from the vintage shop around the corner.) Italia at it’s finest.

In the theme of kenosis, a reiterated discipline of “self-emptying” pulled from the book Maeg and I weekly discuss, a golden carpet of fallen leaves and exposed bare branches visibly display the effects of such a season within us.

We’re shedding layers, like the surrounding world. And as winter raps on the door to takes its place, we’re asking it to hold off a little longer. There is more to surrender…

Nevertheless, time inevitably races, and three weeks have already passed since we alighted the steep hills of Cinque Terre with Whitney and Ethna; a trip worth a short novel in itself.

Cinque Terre Highlight: the coast-side terrace view of our “upgraded” hostel, the ocean backdrop during our nightly porch feasts and, ultimately, the welcomed and refreshing company of both Ethna and Whitney as we peered over the vertigo-edges of coastal cliffs. (Not to forget a worthy introduction to Ethna's Mexican chili powder and an entertaining observation of Whitney's Nutella consumption rate.)

During the following week, Dr. Parrish surprised us with a  “scouting” visit for Baylor’s abroad program, invoking a timely mid-semester evaluation of our stay in Florence, both introspectively and outwardly. Appreciative for this unexpected pause, Maeg and I reflected on our densely-packed tales and transformations since August, and contemplated the unrealized stories still to unfold. Following the professor’s visit, our crawling-pace of academic life spiked and we pulled the typical collegiate cram-sessions to cross the October finish line.

Rejuvenated from a quiet four-day weekend, we excitedly received Steph into our Florentine home that quickly followed with a Fall Break vacation to Budapest and Prague….. 

the prophet.

And a youth said, "Speak to us of Friendship."

Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the "nay" in your own mind, nor do you withhold the "ay."

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;

For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;

For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.

For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.

If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.

For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?

Seek him always with hours to live.

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.

And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.

For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. 

just like yesterday.

For a Travel Writing course-assignment, I was asked to record three journal-esque entries from a frequently visited location.

Here are my thoughts:

Day 1…

The sun shines blindingly bright, both in direct gaze and in the liquid reflection off the river. It is so bright, that I have to squint my eyes just to write. I imagine that the tree stump I’m sitting on is much like Shel Silverstein’s “Giving Tree,” and I wonder who all has received welcome from his generosity over the years. When his branches thrived, who sat in his shade? And now as an old stump, how many residents or tourists have appreciated his nature-constructed seat. From the tree’s riverside perspective of Florence, I am sure he absorbs countless stories throughout the passing ages…

The sun makes it nearly impossible to open my eyes, but I appreciate its warmth and decide to embrace the natural blindfold it's rays create. 

With my eyes now shut, I hear more than I did before. I hear a basketball beating the pavement behind me, with an occasional swish of a made-shot. I hear the wind filter through the branches above, like a long, deep exhale. I also feel the chill it carries on one side of my face while the sun bakes the other cheek. I hear cars and vespas and bikes, and finally, an ambulance. 

Yet, even with closed eyes, little changes. I still easily picture the now-familiar scene, and the new crisply perceived sounds and feelings only sharpen the images of daily riverbank routine within my memory. 

Day 2…

Today, I want to eliminate another sense. Yesterday I blocked my vision, now I try to mask my hearing.  Using my iPod, I make sure I can audibly perceive nothing but the music streaming through each headphone. 

The stronger wind and silver hues of the sky and water complimentarily produce a less triumphant aura than the day before. I think I can smell rain.  And it feels much colder. Yet the seemingly rehearsed act of habitual life carries on. People cross the bridge, busses and bikes wheel by on the opposite embankment and rowboats glide along in a daily workout.

The most apparent contrast deems a more introspective analysis. With my eyes closed yesterday, I felt as though I still somehow participated in the rhythm of this venue. But today, I strangely feel like a mere observer; disengaged with a sideline view of the world in front of me. 
           In a casual “would you rather” conversation, I’ve been asked to if I’d prefer to lose my sight or hearing. I always chose the latter. But after today’s intriguing discovery, I may have to reconsider.

Day 3…

On this third day, I had hoped to remove yet another sense. However, I can not determine how to thoroughly accomplish this, so I simply allow my thoughts wander... 

I think about the continuity of the life around me. Despite slight alterations in weather or personally modified circumstances, life appears to progress in similar manner every day. People still saunter or drive to their destination, and the details I noted on previous sittings persist. The river still flows, and the Giving Tree stump-seat still remains. 

The inevitable awareness of life's habitual repetition oddly fascinates me. I know life is prone to evolve, for I have experienced more change in the past few years than I can keep up with. Yet simultaneous to its evolution, it also carries on similar to the day before. I suppose I will always attempt to reconcile the tension between change and constancy. But today I acknowledge a continued story- a continued stream of occurrences that that connect to a vaster meaning. And as the years pass, I hope to discover what small but significant role I get to contribute to this ongoing reel. 

adventure.

"And thinking of life as a journey reminds me to stop trying to set up camp and call it home. It allows me to see life as a process, with completion somewhere down the road. Thus, I am free from feeling like a failure when things are not finished, and hopeful that they would be as my journey comes to its end. I want adventure, and this reminds me that I'm living in it. Life is not a problem to be solved; it is an adventure to be lived."

-John Eldredge

alpine bliss.

Winter’s prelude held back its usual curtain of cold rain and low-draping clouds for one last weekend, much to our surprise and delight. The long-anticipated trip to Interlaken welcomed our weary bodies with crystal clear skies and 75 degree sunshine. Not far from a Durango-esque summer (only trimmed with Sound of Music Swiss Alps) the weekend articulated perfection, in a ‘this-cant-be-real’ kind of way. With a utopian facade, the place felt completely out of harms way, and Maegan and I found ourselves laughing in the absurdity of the dream-like encounters that graced our time.

Beginning with an evening in the “hammock” room of our mountain-town hostel, and ending with a spontaneous headphone, team-MAIT dance at the Brig railroad station, Switzerland sandwiched an incredible line up…

-Canyoning, clothed in 4-inch thick neoprene (a 4 hour excursion through melted glaciers’ deep cut ravines…repelling, cliff jumping, floating, sliding and swimming through icey Alpine waters).

-Hiking a serene, Swiss heartland-valley surrounded by wooden cabins, babbling brooks, grandma gardeners, musical cows, glistening waterfalls and turf-colored grass.

-Lying, face up, in Stechelberg, as flying humans jumped off the 1,000+ ft. cliff above our heads. (somehow we found ourselves at a professional, World-Tournament for Base Jumpers?)

-Devouring chocolate truffles, with the “Mochatine” as a first-place contender.

-Sipping coffee while communing with our Maker’s presence at the famous Mountain Hostel in Gimmelwald, at the highest altitude of our climb.

-Listening to a private concert (upon request) from a friendly, Lauterbrunnen yodeling group en route to their next village concert…my favorite birthday present.

-Yoga-ing in the park near an aqua river before embarking on our charming train rides home…

As Maeg noted, the ease in which our mentalities fell into a subliminal, awe-struck appreciation of the beauty around us, proved refreshing. We have seen and touched some of the most monumental art in all of history during our stay abroad, yet still nothing compared to this natural panorama.

Human hands have re-constructed and re-created exquisite splendor over the years…learning to profoundly re-order what already exists…

Yet only One crafts and creates out of absolute nothingness…and His work cannot be rivaled…

alchemist.

"The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold him back except himself."
-Paulo Coelho

explain.

"...We all feel the riddle of the earth without anyone to point it out. The mystery of life is the plainest part of it. The clouds and curtains of darkness, the confounding vapours, these are the daily weather of this world. Whatever else we have grown accustomed to, we have grown accustomed to the unaccountable. Every stone or flower is a hieroglyphic of which we have lost the key; with every step of our lives we enter into the middle of some story which we are certain to misunderstand....unless we have Someone who can explain..." G.K. Chesterton

week recap.

• Voyaged to Venice last weekend. After enjoying the picturesque novelty of the street-replaced canals and touristly-authentic gondola captains, easily deemed it a “once is enough” trip.
• Decided to end Maeg’s partially conscience, partially sub-conscience, week-long computer-strike.
• Increased the caffeine addiction…tolerance now requires two “pots” of home-made espresso each morning rather than one…
• Pronounced a hiatus from the weekly “sports night” soccer scrimmages, after coach Fabritzo channeled his vicarious power-trip-energy into a 4 hour excursion last Monday.
• Befriended two travelers from the U.S. Northwest, and spent the past three days offering the “inside scoop” to Florence while enjoying their adventurous company!
• Accomplished a week of “eating from the earth”…Maeg and I’s effort to embrace the fresh produce availability from local markets.
• Purchased the long-awaited tickets to Interlaken, Switzerland...definite climax. 

quieter Life.

"It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind...

...We can only do it for moments at first. But from those moments the new sort of life will be spreading through our system: because now we are letting Him work at the right part of us. It is the difference between paint, which is merely laid on the surface, and a dye or stain which soaks right through.”

— C.S. Lewis (Mere Christianity)

Corso Tintori, 6.

almost all of the roommates

+

isla!

band Duomo.

In light of my most recently-impulsive purchase…an old, used classical guitar (which the old Geppetto-like shop keeper offered to buy back in December)….we have a new-found project that will hopefully pay for a weekend excursion. Or at least a bottle of wine…

We committed to learn and perfect one song to play in front of the steps of the Duomo-Florence’s most concentrated arena of international tourists. With a montage of peers from our study abroad community, we will form a full-on band, with a promise of head-turning performances. Diversified contributions are as follows…

Maegan: Banjo

Isla: Harmonica

Jaimo: Trumpet

Tom: Vocals

Nikki: Flute

Alex: Whistle

Anne: Violin

Emily: Crowd-attracting fan

Terra: Dance

The debut date and polished tune are still to be determined.

However, one of Maegan’s theme-songs for Fall 2010 sits as a high contender for the winning spot:

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If the Gypsies can pull it off, so can we…