Tuesday, September 28, 2010

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

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

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)

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Sunday, September 19, 2010

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:


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

Thursday, September 16, 2010

photos.

maeg's photography in full-force...
dream

tuscany.


Maeg and I spent our weekend in the storybook Tuscan countryside, touring vineyards, tasting wine, exploring small villages and even sun-bathing on a Mediterranean beach.
Once again the dreamlike sensation gave way, as we joined our classmates in picking deep purple grapes off a fertile vine, scampering around the Robin-Hoodesque streets of ancient Pitigliano, or gazing at the smooth sunset hues followed by a smoky afterglow and pixie-dust stars each evening.
But beyond the seemingly painted scenescape surrounding our travels, we both sensed more than what we saw. In a frustrated effort to describe this perceived “unseen” layer, I sifted through lines and lines of inspired beginning-thoughts, recorded on my hand, in my journal or in conversation with Maegan, only to end up wordless.
As we welcomed the renewed Autumn-feel, I could try to explain Maegan’s thoughts on yearly seasons, and the necessity of the rhythm to which they pace life.
As we saw-smelled-heard details of small-life within the encompassing countryside, I could try to remind you of God’s implicit presence in all creation. The reality of living and moving and being in Him.

As we circled through the Medieval pathways in Pitigliano, I could present you with the burning question I longed to ask the grandpa-man behind the window-“What do you believe our purpose is?”
As the post-card and Google images of Tuscany grew animate before our eyes, I could tell you that the mountains and rocks cry out in praise to their Maker, in a very literal manner.
As we peered at the full Italian landscape through a crevice opening in the tufa stone, I could connect my thoughts to Narnia’s Last Battle. When Aslan allows his kingdom to watch the redemption of the World through a wooden door-frame.

But I wont try too hard. Because beyond these few sentences, I do not possess the ability to adequately portray any of it. And I’m glad.

As we sat on the edge of our hill Saturday evening, deeply breathing in the pine-laced lavender aroma of Tuscany dusk, this reverent sacredness stilled my thoughts and my pen. Thankful for the capacity to feel the indescribable in such moments, I am contently reminded that eternity echoes in all of our hearts. And though faint foreshadowings offer tantalizing glimpses into this world, we will continually yearn for the real thing to come.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

flashback.


Growing up, I deservedly achieved the status of a treasure-hunter. The less informed often term this trade as a simple packrat. Yet such degrading labels solely stem from bitter inexperience, I am sure. Because I discovered buckets upon buckets of epic knick-knacks, useful for the most imaginative purposes.  I unearthed 50 year old marbles in my back yard, beautiful shells from the algae-infested creek of Ponca City’s “duck pond park,” grease covered railroad spikes in Durango, crystallized rocks in the Enid alleys and gaudy bits of costume jewelry beneath the stairs at church. I coveted the secret grotto of The Little Mermaid, deeply appreciating the fantastic set-up she possessed for all her trinkets.
Needless to say, the most useful findings consisted of actual money. My keen eyes never missed the glimmer of an abandoned coin near the gutter or a penny at the bottom of the pool. To my great delight, my mom constantly marveled at just how much change I’d rake in with each adventure. Once, I even found a $10 bill in the Gulf of Mexico!
Luck slowly dwindled as I grew up, but occasionally my fortune-of-old would return for a few precious moments.  

Flashback to one of our afternoons in Roma: Amidst the crammed avenues of the city and processions of lined-up souvenir carts, I hurriedly tried to keep pace with Maeg as she artistically wove in and out of dense throngs of Asians (a continually difficult process for me in our adventures). I could think of nothing else but my desperate need to sit down, when all of the sudden my trained eyes caught a glimpse of a slight twinkle near my foot…



With an avalanche of nostalgic excitement racing through my fatigued body, I began to yell at Maegan to slow down-immediately ready to recount the talents of my childhood and proudly display the newest booty for my purse-a European coin!
But in the short time it took Maeg to turn around and look back, I was already on my third attempt to pick up the shiny silver and gold Euro, because it had been cleverly SUPER GLUED to the cobblestone in front of me.
The incessant laughter of two Roman vendors on my right immediately shattered the illusion of my briefly resurrected skill, and as I snapped back to reality, I quickly traded my embarrassed feelings for the valued understanding of a good prank.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

living questions.


"Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day."
-Rainer Maria Rilke



Tuesday, September 7, 2010

stories.



"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." -Maya Angelou 


Stories flood the streets of Florence. They spill over every step, pour out of every cafe and drip between every conversation. The museum curators and multi-lingual tour guides narrate stories of the epic history of the Duomo or the Santa Croce cathedral, two sites we daily pass in our strolls. The baristas and waiters recount stories about the affairs of their regular customers, in a language I’ve yet to speak. The outdoor markets heckle the story of Italian cuisine in its origin, and the carefully mastered trade of its vendors. Our roommates, our new family of 8, try to ramble through their own stories, of where they come from and what they dream to accomplish. The corner musicians evoke nostalgic sentiment as they re-tell the already written stories of humanity and passion. And African street merchants just ask you to buy their fake goods.

These obvious tales collect in obvious places within the limits of our Renaissance town. Yet more stories dwell behind the Gothic doors of Florence abodes. Winding down the isolated alleys and sealed behind 3rd-story window shutters, hover the undiscovered tales that enchant this place. And these untold stories beckon the wanderer to listen more intently. They compel us to scrutinize the surreal effect of a Florence sunset viewed from the top of the Piazzale Michelangelo hill. They entice us ponder the life of the solitary row boat, gliding down the Arno River in front of our flat. Or they challenge us to humbly accept the sweet savor of a chocolate croissant from the “secret bakery” after midnight.  Within the hidden meanings, and the tales longing to be realized, Florence will constantly bask in an aura of romantic curiosity.
As we continue to pursue the hidden life here around our Italian home, we hope to also uncover the bigger Life-story, expecting it to possess and connect all the smaller stories. Both told and untold.