By Carbon Leaf. I wish I had known when I first heard this song in concert 3 years ago, how much I would come to love it.
Love endures, it clings away
When asked to leave, it begs to stay
Like the perfect song, at imperfect times
It's the way the chords struck with the rhymes
So let your troubles roll by...
He knows he can help himself
He can tell by a look at the books on his shelf
And someone, somewhere loses her son
Before her own sunset is said and done
And she dreams of sunflowers bent-over
Frozen in snow, and thinks 'Colorado.. ?'
But then plays her life back in slow motion
To keep in touch with that raw emotion
In the night, crushed empty can
Olive Oyle is waiting for her man
To come in from the fight
That will change their life
'For good this time...'
When all of your tears dry, let your troubles roll by
Like New Year's Eve, tonight's underway
But tomorrow you'll wake up afraid of the day
'Cause underneath the scars of your broken dreams
An undone war still wages and stings
You fear the year will blow
Like a breeze through a rainbow
You swear it's there, but you can't grab a hold
So you sit and cry and wonder why, why...
When all of your tears dry, let your troubles roll by
So many cities and windows and lives
And through each one there's a soul that strives to survive
So pay no mind, my sorrow's fine
The day is a live and that's why I cry
It's a New Year's toast, grab your list to conspire
The last snake hissed as he was thrown in the fire
You've come far, and though you're far from the end
You don't mind where you are, cause you know where you've been
Like a culture vulture sprawled out on the floor
Like a dead devil soldier washed up on the shore
With nothing of note but the ole' Capt.'s coat
And a burning boat you just sank with your salty tears...
When all of your tears dry, let your troubles roll by
Monday, June 2, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Beauty through the twilight
A photo from this evening
Tonight marks the celebration of Corpus Cristi, the night in Italy when half of the city shuts down while the other half flocks to the windows and rooftops to watch the bishop process down the corso with the Holy Eucharist held high. The bells from one church peal and fade until the bells from the next church call you along to the final destination. The military orders come out in their very best regalia; banners stream, children bless themselves, and religious file through the streets in packs.
Last year my parents and I had the wonderful surprise of stumbling into Assisi in time for the feast. Nothing, I thought, could compare to that journey through the the narrow rock streets with the bells echoing from one side of the town to the other.
As I made my way to Maria Maggiore this evening, going down the same Via Merulana that the Pope would take from San Giovanni Laterno to Our Lady's Basilica, the sky was a smear of twilight blue and grey clouds behind the column and bell tower of Maria Maggiore. Waiting in my two-person deep spot in front of the main piazza, there were lovely surreal sights that seemed to have been borrowed from a different age.
A lone friar dressed in gray stood in the balcony of the facade, looking down at the crowds murmuringly waiting below. Scattered purple bishops and red cardinals bustled and assembled in the seats flanking the stupendous altar, set up to await the Eucharist's arrival. A monk on a ladder lit the lean candlesticks on one side, then moved the ladder on to light the next. Speakers scattered across the piazza gave Eucharistic reflections and led the attentive in every traditional Eucharist hymn known to the Latin and Italian world. The Czech non-Catholic couple who had asked me what was going on there tonight stayed there next to me, waiting for over an hour before the Pope even arrived, looking about in interest, amusement, and quite absorption.
The first sign of the procession's arrival were the first banners unfurling in the wind and the lay orders beneath them, the banners all embroidered with emblems of Our Lady or Our Lord, the followers all dressed in the particular order's cape or special vestment. There were medieval vests and thick heavy gold lanterns with red glass, swaying above the heads of their carriers. These people flowed into the area around the piazza's column, turned and waited.
Then came the nuns; hundreds of them, all carrying lit candles with colored paper bibs to protect from the dripping wax. They filed off to the right of the circular area. The priests followed; thousands of them, from every order and nation, dressed in their vestments, all moving to the left.
Then a pause; and then the murmur of clapping starting to rise, the flashes of light blinking around the corner I stood at; the first glimpse of the upraised gold cross and candlesticks above the heads of the crowd, and slowly emerging mere feet away, the magnificent sight of the upraised platform upon which the Eucharist rested. And there kneeling before Him, our beloved Pope gazing in perfect peace and happiness upon Our Lord, his upturned expression completely enraptured, seemingly unaware of the noise and business that he was passing.
I had my arms upraised filming the sight, but my eyes were locked the moment they rested upon the Pope's indescribably beautiful attention. I have seen that look of peace and light freedom before, but never had I saw it in such a religious context.
Love is the only word to summarize it.
Almost exactly four years and a month ago, my eyes locked for a moment with those of Pope John Paul II during the last Papal event I saw him alive. The profound impact of that moment will be with me my entire existence. Now in my memory there stands by its side the image of a Pope whose eyes were not turned towards me, but to an illuminated monstrance containing the Saviour of the world.
The love of the gaze, that permeates each, is the same.
Tonight marks the celebration of Corpus Cristi, the night in Italy when half of the city shuts down while the other half flocks to the windows and rooftops to watch the bishop process down the corso with the Holy Eucharist held high. The bells from one church peal and fade until the bells from the next church call you along to the final destination. The military orders come out in their very best regalia; banners stream, children bless themselves, and religious file through the streets in packs.
Last year my parents and I had the wonderful surprise of stumbling into Assisi in time for the feast. Nothing, I thought, could compare to that journey through the the narrow rock streets with the bells echoing from one side of the town to the other.
As I made my way to Maria Maggiore this evening, going down the same Via Merulana that the Pope would take from San Giovanni Laterno to Our Lady's Basilica, the sky was a smear of twilight blue and grey clouds behind the column and bell tower of Maria Maggiore. Waiting in my two-person deep spot in front of the main piazza, there were lovely surreal sights that seemed to have been borrowed from a different age.
A lone friar dressed in gray stood in the balcony of the facade, looking down at the crowds murmuringly waiting below. Scattered purple bishops and red cardinals bustled and assembled in the seats flanking the stupendous altar, set up to await the Eucharist's arrival. A monk on a ladder lit the lean candlesticks on one side, then moved the ladder on to light the next. Speakers scattered across the piazza gave Eucharistic reflections and led the attentive in every traditional Eucharist hymn known to the Latin and Italian world. The Czech non-Catholic couple who had asked me what was going on there tonight stayed there next to me, waiting for over an hour before the Pope even arrived, looking about in interest, amusement, and quite absorption.
The first sign of the procession's arrival were the first banners unfurling in the wind and the lay orders beneath them, the banners all embroidered with emblems of Our Lady or Our Lord, the followers all dressed in the particular order's cape or special vestment. There were medieval vests and thick heavy gold lanterns with red glass, swaying above the heads of their carriers. These people flowed into the area around the piazza's column, turned and waited.
Then came the nuns; hundreds of them, all carrying lit candles with colored paper bibs to protect from the dripping wax. They filed off to the right of the circular area. The priests followed; thousands of them, from every order and nation, dressed in their vestments, all moving to the left.
Then a pause; and then the murmur of clapping starting to rise, the flashes of light blinking around the corner I stood at; the first glimpse of the upraised gold cross and candlesticks above the heads of the crowd, and slowly emerging mere feet away, the magnificent sight of the upraised platform upon which the Eucharist rested. And there kneeling before Him, our beloved Pope gazing in perfect peace and happiness upon Our Lord, his upturned expression completely enraptured, seemingly unaware of the noise and business that he was passing.
I had my arms upraised filming the sight, but my eyes were locked the moment they rested upon the Pope's indescribably beautiful attention. I have seen that look of peace and light freedom before, but never had I saw it in such a religious context.
Love is the only word to summarize it.
Almost exactly four years and a month ago, my eyes locked for a moment with those of Pope John Paul II during the last Papal event I saw him alive. The profound impact of that moment will be with me my entire existence. Now in my memory there stands by its side the image of a Pope whose eyes were not turned towards me, but to an illuminated monstrance containing the Saviour of the world.
The love of the gaze, that permeates each, is the same.
In Love
In all my Maltese (i.e. Greek, Sicilian, Italian, and Hebrew) roots, there has got to be something Middle Eastern. Because I am absolutely in love with this woman's blog:
http://moroccanmaryam.typepad.com/
An American family building a guest house in Marrakesh. What could be more fascinating? The patterns . . . the colors . . . the mystery of it all - go add it to your bookmarks and drink it all in. Thanks goes to Mollie (who else?) for the referral.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Padre Pio, Obi Wan Kanobee, and St. Michael
Ha - I tried some new picture formatting which didn't turn out quite as planned . . . I'm too lazy to fix it tonight, so please ignore the skewedness of it all . . .
Let's compare the two.
They both have white beards. They both have brown robes with hoods. They both look old in their official pictures.
When I was little, I was hopelessly confused. It's a good thing I figured out the difference before I came to Italy, otherwise I would think that I'm living in a country full of Star War freaks.
Padre Pio is everywhere here. So last month, I decided to put myself down there in San Giovanni Rotondo, the burial place of San P. He's been in the news lately because the Franciscans who take care of his tomb started the process to put his body on display (covered by a thin layer of wax, under glass), and his family protested. Apparently there's an Italian law which prohibits the display of corpses, which is pretty funny, considering that this is The Land of Relics and Dead People and Dead People Bones and Dead People Tongues and Dead People In Every Church for you to see. But, to Italy's happiness, the Franciscans won. Visitors to SGinR are expected to surpass Lourdes this year because of it.
To get to SanG, I got up at 5.30 AM and took a series of trains that got me to Foggia by noon. Then I took a bus across plain and field . . .
And promptly got on a bus with Jen to go to Monte San Michele, a beautiful seaside town on a hill with white buildings and the customary narrow streets. There's a famous grotto there that Saint Michael the Archangel appeared 4 times in during the middle ages. Unfortunately they don't allow pictures, so I took pictures of the town instead.
The parts of the town close to the sea - especially the embankments - reminded me so much of Malta. Jen and I had some fantastic conversations as we walked through the streets, checking into novelty shops and looking at all the great local food specialties. One huge negozio had everything you could imagine . . . homemade limoncello, jarred apricots, dried pepperoncino, every type of bread you could imagine - all with homemade tags telling you the prices and what things were. It was fantastic.
I was especially fascinated by the way this region of Italy displays its bread outside the store. All of the shops had round wheels with their pane and dolce arranged for you to see. The region is famous for a curiousity called "Ostie Piene" (probably misspelled that), which translates into "filled hosts." They take two unleavened host-like breads and put almonds and drizzle a sticky honey-lemon concoction in between the two.
Jen and I plopped ourselves down on a wall above a lower embankment and talked about hypothetical children falling off such high unfenced walls. Funny how you only think about such things when you get older. Italy isn't exactly the most safety- conscious place in the universe.
The statue above, my friend, made me giggle for about 3 days. Jen and I found the kitschiest store you could imagine, and after looking at bubble toys, fake Barbie heads, and Marys floating in lava lamps, I thought I'd seen it all. Until I saw the 1970 version of disco-hair Michael who looks like he happened to step on something nasty on the way to meet his prom date. The outstretched hands are what did me in.
I still wish I'd bought it.
The way back to San G had some gorgeous scenery . . . like this mountain, which looks like it got knuckled by a giant . . .
But what I really loved was going to Sunday Mass at the beautiful modern shrine in San Giovanni the next morning. Blogger stopped responding to picture uploads, so more images will have to wait. I loved how the shrine's curving sections converging at the main altar broke up the space and eliminated the "airplane hangar" large-church feel. The massive semi-circular window covered with medieval illuminations brings a rich, traditional, prayerful atmosphere that most modern churches usually lack. I was absorbed with their beauty and theology during the entire Mass (which was in Italian, so I have an excuse for the distraction).
After Mass, I spent three hours waiting to view PP's tomb/body, only to have to leave 10 minutes before I would have got in because I *had* to catch my bus to catch the train. C'est la vie. More photos coming soon!
Let's compare the two.
They both have white beards. They both have brown robes with hoods. They both look old in their official pictures.
When I was little, I was hopelessly confused. It's a good thing I figured out the difference before I came to Italy, otherwise I would think that I'm living in a country full of Star War freaks.
Padre Pio is everywhere here. So last month, I decided to put myself down there in San Giovanni Rotondo, the burial place of San P. He's been in the news lately because the Franciscans who take care of his tomb started the process to put his body on display (covered by a thin layer of wax, under glass), and his family protested. Apparently there's an Italian law which prohibits the display of corpses, which is pretty funny, considering that this is The Land of Relics and Dead People and Dead People Bones and Dead People Tongues and Dead People In Every Church for you to see. But, to Italy's happiness, the Franciscans won. Visitors to SGinR are expected to surpass Lourdes this year because of it.
To get to SanG, I got up at 5.30 AM and took a series of trains that got me to Foggia by noon. Then I took a bus across plain and field . . .
And promptly got on a bus with Jen to go to Monte San Michele, a beautiful seaside town on a hill with white buildings and the customary narrow streets. There's a famous grotto there that Saint Michael the Archangel appeared 4 times in during the middle ages. Unfortunately they don't allow pictures, so I took pictures of the town instead.
The parts of the town close to the sea - especially the embankments - reminded me so much of Malta. Jen and I had some fantastic conversations as we walked through the streets, checking into novelty shops and looking at all the great local food specialties. One huge negozio had everything you could imagine . . . homemade limoncello, jarred apricots, dried pepperoncino, every type of bread you could imagine - all with homemade tags telling you the prices and what things were. It was fantastic.
I was especially fascinated by the way this region of Italy displays its bread outside the store. All of the shops had round wheels with their pane and dolce arranged for you to see. The region is famous for a curiousity called "Ostie Piene" (probably misspelled that), which translates into "filled hosts." They take two unleavened host-like breads and put almonds and drizzle a sticky honey-lemon concoction in between the two.
Jen and I plopped ourselves down on a wall above a lower embankment and talked about hypothetical children falling off such high unfenced walls. Funny how you only think about such things when you get older. Italy isn't exactly the most safety- conscious place in the universe.
The statue above, my friend, made me giggle for about 3 days. Jen and I found the kitschiest store you could imagine, and after looking at bubble toys, fake Barbie heads, and Marys floating in lava lamps, I thought I'd seen it all. Until I saw the 1970 version of disco-hair Michael who looks like he happened to step on something nasty on the way to meet his prom date. The outstretched hands are what did me in.
I still wish I'd bought it.
The way back to San G had some gorgeous scenery . . . like this mountain, which looks like it got knuckled by a giant . . .
But what I really loved was going to Sunday Mass at the beautiful modern shrine in San Giovanni the next morning. Blogger stopped responding to picture uploads, so more images will have to wait. I loved how the shrine's curving sections converging at the main altar broke up the space and eliminated the "airplane hangar" large-church feel. The massive semi-circular window covered with medieval illuminations brings a rich, traditional, prayerful atmosphere that most modern churches usually lack. I was absorbed with their beauty and theology during the entire Mass (which was in Italian, so I have an excuse for the distraction).
After Mass, I spent three hours waiting to view PP's tomb/body, only to have to leave 10 minutes before I would have got in because I *had* to catch my bus to catch the train. C'est la vie. More photos coming soon!
Our Lady and the Tree
Continuing to traipse down memory lane:
FATIMA.
Fatima has Salvador Dali trees. Sort of like that line from Under the Tuscan Sun: "Italy has creepy trees. It's like they know. And they know that we know that they know."
Moi braving the wind in the grand piazza surrounding the apparition site. I have to admit, I was disappointed that it wasn't still a pasture with scrubby Portugeuse trees. After the organic grotto at Lourdes, I had prepped myself for a better visual prop to imagine the apparitions. Ach, a childhood image was shattered that day. But it was still beautiful. And windy. And bright.
The Lourdes cathedral had a mosiac of Our Lady that I thought was weird at first, but it slowly grew on me. The Fatima image struck me right away. Our Lady softly reaches down to humanity, a shimming light to those suffering in darkness. It's surreal and lovely.
Joseph, Monika and I sporting our matchey-matchey blue, which turned into the running joke of the schoolyear.
The part of Fatima that gave me chills: a section of the Berlin Wall, displayed to draw the connection between Our Lady's warnings in 1917 and the emergence of Communism. A great reminder of how prayer led to its ultimate defeat.
Francisco's tomb within the Cathedral. He's on one side of the Church close to the altar, the girls are on the other.
Jacinta and Lucia's tombs. And, in the bottom left corner, the baskets for the wax prayer offerings. I kid you not. If you prayed to God for Him to cure your foot or liver and your prayer was answered, you can obtain a wax representation of the particular cured body part at the religious goods store and place the wax representation on a grill with flames shooting up (located near the candles). They have representations for everything - sick children, hands, breast cancer, heads . . . use your imagination. A little too earthy for me, but it made for alot of reverent humor.
Me lighting a candle. Just a candle. Not lighting up a head, finger, or spleen.
My classmates offering Mass at the apparition site. The little house marks where Mary appeared; nothing is left of the tree. The statue which Pope John Paul II crowned in gratitude to Mary for interceding for his life is encased in glass in front of the chapel/sanctuary/mini-house. Have to say, the site was a little anti-climatic. But it fit with the poverty and simplicity of the region.
A statue of Pope John Paul II kneeling in supplication, faced towards the main plaza. He's located in front of the massive concrete vat of a building which apparently serves as the major church for large events. San Giovanni beats that structure in the Massive Church Department hands down . . .those pictures coming as soon as I'm bored during class (very soon).
FATIMA.
Fatima has Salvador Dali trees. Sort of like that line from Under the Tuscan Sun: "Italy has creepy trees. It's like they know. And they know that we know that they know."
Moi braving the wind in the grand piazza surrounding the apparition site. I have to admit, I was disappointed that it wasn't still a pasture with scrubby Portugeuse trees. After the organic grotto at Lourdes, I had prepped myself for a better visual prop to imagine the apparitions. Ach, a childhood image was shattered that day. But it was still beautiful. And windy. And bright.
The Lourdes cathedral had a mosiac of Our Lady that I thought was weird at first, but it slowly grew on me. The Fatima image struck me right away. Our Lady softly reaches down to humanity, a shimming light to those suffering in darkness. It's surreal and lovely.
Joseph, Monika and I sporting our matchey-matchey blue, which turned into the running joke of the schoolyear.
The part of Fatima that gave me chills: a section of the Berlin Wall, displayed to draw the connection between Our Lady's warnings in 1917 and the emergence of Communism. A great reminder of how prayer led to its ultimate defeat.
Francisco's tomb within the Cathedral. He's on one side of the Church close to the altar, the girls are on the other.
Jacinta and Lucia's tombs. And, in the bottom left corner, the baskets for the wax prayer offerings. I kid you not. If you prayed to God for Him to cure your foot or liver and your prayer was answered, you can obtain a wax representation of the particular cured body part at the religious goods store and place the wax representation on a grill with flames shooting up (located near the candles). They have representations for everything - sick children, hands, breast cancer, heads . . . use your imagination. A little too earthy for me, but it made for alot of reverent humor.
Me lighting a candle. Just a candle. Not lighting up a head, finger, or spleen.
My classmates offering Mass at the apparition site. The little house marks where Mary appeared; nothing is left of the tree. The statue which Pope John Paul II crowned in gratitude to Mary for interceding for his life is encased in glass in front of the chapel/sanctuary/mini-house. Have to say, the site was a little anti-climatic. But it fit with the poverty and simplicity of the region.
A statue of Pope John Paul II kneeling in supplication, faced towards the main plaza. He's located in front of the massive concrete vat of a building which apparently serves as the major church for large events. San Giovanni beats that structure in the Massive Church Department hands down . . .those pictures coming as soon as I'm bored during class (very soon).
Monday, May 19, 2008
Trust
From Pope Benedict's Angelus address in Genoa yesterday:
Tradition tells of how the Madonna, in her first appearance to Benedetto Pareto -- who was worried about how he would go about building a church in that place so far from the city -- said: “Trust in me! You will not lack the means. With my help everything will be easy. Only be firm in your will.” “Trust in me!” Mary repeats this again to us today. An ancient prayer, very dear to popular tradition, has us address these words to her, that today we make our own: “Remember, O, most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercession was left unaided.”
Compliments of Zenit.org
Tradition tells of how the Madonna, in her first appearance to Benedetto Pareto -- who was worried about how he would go about building a church in that place so far from the city -- said: “Trust in me! You will not lack the means. With my help everything will be easy. Only be firm in your will.” “Trust in me!” Mary repeats this again to us today. An ancient prayer, very dear to popular tradition, has us address these words to her, that today we make our own: “Remember, O, most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help or sought thy intercession was left unaided.”
Compliments of Zenit.org
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Spain Flashback!
You might say that my blogging muse has been on vacation for the past month. Fortunately, there's nothing like writing cover letters ad nauseum and having three papers due in one week to get you into the writin' groove. The class I'm sitting in right now is super boring, so behold:
SPAIN. As seen in February.
First: AVILA. Home of St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross, we had the chance to tour the convent that St. T entered, have Mass at her first reformed convent (Convent of St. Joseph), and check out the awesome museums scattered about the medieval city.
We saw St. J's famous sketch of the cross, which I'm thinking was the inspiration for Salvador Dali down the road.
As well as a crucifix which moved St. Teresa.
Monika and I outside of the convent, with Avila in the background.
The garden where St. Teresa had a vision which inspired part of the Interior Castle . . .I think . . .
Next: GRANADA. And the amazing Muslim fortress/palace the Alahambra, covered with carvings and tiles with intricate designs.
The incredible stucco ceilings in Alahambra.
The wall next to the Granada Cathedral offers a most difficult decision.
Some choices are much easier. I think we managed to find the one Italian-themed caffe in Granada.
My classmate Elizabeth sampling some beautiful Spanish acoustics.
Eventually, I chose Spiritual Enlightenment. The interior of the Granada Cathedral. Absolutely loved the light blue with the gold, especially when combined with the white walls. We also got to see the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabel, but they wouldn't let you take pictures there.
The interior of a church dedicated to St. John of God. I'm sorry, but all that gold was just gross. I thought I was going to have a seizure from all that shininess by the time we got to the Gospel.
SPAIN. As seen in February.
First: AVILA. Home of St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross, we had the chance to tour the convent that St. T entered, have Mass at her first reformed convent (Convent of St. Joseph), and check out the awesome museums scattered about the medieval city.
We saw St. J's famous sketch of the cross, which I'm thinking was the inspiration for Salvador Dali down the road.
As well as a crucifix which moved St. Teresa.
Monika and I outside of the convent, with Avila in the background.
The garden where St. Teresa had a vision which inspired part of the Interior Castle . . .I think . . .
Next: GRANADA. And the amazing Muslim fortress/palace the Alahambra, covered with carvings and tiles with intricate designs.
The incredible stucco ceilings in Alahambra.
The wall next to the Granada Cathedral offers a most difficult decision.
Some choices are much easier. I think we managed to find the one Italian-themed caffe in Granada.
My classmate Elizabeth sampling some beautiful Spanish acoustics.
Eventually, I chose Spiritual Enlightenment. The interior of the Granada Cathedral. Absolutely loved the light blue with the gold, especially when combined with the white walls. We also got to see the tombs of Ferdinand and Isabel, but they wouldn't let you take pictures there.
The interior of a church dedicated to St. John of God. I'm sorry, but all that gold was just gross. I thought I was going to have a seizure from all that shininess by the time we got to the Gospel.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Getting Back to Work
Alora. It's that time again. The time when I have to start thinking about making money and where to live and what to do this summer. Tonight was revising the resume (does a "Masters Plus" - what I've been told is the equivalent of the "Licentiate" I'm doing here - even exist in the States, or is it just something that the Italians came up with?!?!?). Two weeks ago was the great research project (during boring classes) of what's out there. And now's the time to start sending the resume out.
So, dear friends, if you know of any places with a positive working environment that offer internships or might have short-term employment available, let me know. I'll be in the States from July 7th until the end of September. I'm primarily searching for something that will offer experience in communications, but I'm flexible. I'm open to anything in Northern VA or the DC area . . . and if you happen to know of any sweet deals on short-term housing, I'd love to hear about them too! :)
Just got back late last night from San Giovanni in Rotondo, the beautiful hillside town of Padre Pio. Pictures and a description to follow soon!
So, dear friends, if you know of any places with a positive working environment that offer internships or might have short-term employment available, let me know. I'll be in the States from July 7th until the end of September. I'm primarily searching for something that will offer experience in communications, but I'm flexible. I'm open to anything in Northern VA or the DC area . . . and if you happen to know of any sweet deals on short-term housing, I'd love to hear about them too! :)
Just got back late last night from San Giovanni in Rotondo, the beautiful hillside town of Padre Pio. Pictures and a description to follow soon!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Recipe for a Paper
Have you heard about this Live Blogging fad? You basically do a minute-by-minute rundown on your blog of what's going on in something.
The novelty is SO overrated. Old news to me. I was already doing it Sophomore year, when Lizzie and I used to sit in the back of a particular professor's class and literally write half-minute-by-second accounts of what was going on in his class (complete with notes) to stay awake.
In the same spirit.
Recipe for a Paper
Pages of book started during Holy Week lines (a time of great preparedness)
Pages of book sorta ended 1 ½ month later (a time of great procrastination)
Middle pages unremembered and loosely underlined on trains (a time of great tiredness and boredom)
Deadline that I thought was Friday
New deadline that the teacher apparently set for Wednesday (yesterday)
Friends coming to the beach today (Thursday)
NEW New deadline personally set for Friday (hey, I was working at the school conference on Wednesday – how could I email it in while I was working?)
The consoling thought that I only work under pressure anyways
The realization (forgotten after every paper) that I have to mull something over for awhile before I can spit out coherent thoughts (time to start new blog post, this'll take awhile)
A desire to be edgy and original (rejecting all opening sentences for two hours)
Reoccurring curses that I simply cannot start writing until I have a good opening line (repeated and yet forgotten with every paper)
Doubts at why I ever thought I could write
Doubts at why I thought studying would be better than working (quickly discarded)
Spurt of confidence as I remember previous reputation as Queen English Major (i.e. Master BSer)
Inspirational food (8 crackers with spreadable cheese and salami . . . to help with all the calories the sun burned off today while changing my skin from white to florescent pink with beforementioned friends . . . maybe stretching the skin will make it less pink, blah)
Inspirational idea that maybe I should look at the book for ideas on what to write about the book (clearly from God, thoughts like that don’t just come to people)
Skimming last 50 never-read pages of book (huh. So that’s what it was all about?)
Deciding to write about Truth and Public Opinion (because things with easy answers are so boring when you’re two days past deadline)
Deciding that blog posts really do help the creative juices flow
Thinking that maybe I should actually write the second page of the paper since it’s 12.36 AM now (sleep would be nice)
Happiness pressing “Courier New” and having less than a page turn into a page and a half
Remembering old quirk that creativity doesn’t flow while using Courier New
Five minute break to ponder about writers being neurotic and having quirks and wondering if it’s a bad thing
Deciding that no one can call me an Edgar Allen Poe
Wondering who WOULD want to be like Edgar Allen Poe? (druggie on poppies)
Returning to paper, Times New Roman again
Double spacing doesn’t impede creative juices
Decide the best way to deal with the paper is to set up a scenario of “what a person with minimal intelligence would inevitably conclude if he read this book” and work through that with the hope that my own minimal intelligence can accurately guess what the reader might think . . .because somehow role-playing is going to make this a lot easier, and if the paper stinks maybe the professor will give the hypothetical near-idiot a bad grade instead of me
Finally step away from hypothetical confused person and start writing authoritatively as the voice of fact and truth (God-like omniscience and confidence)
Keane is great writing music
If I flunk out of school, I could make money heating Siberia with the body warmth emanating from my back and thighs (ouch ouch ouch why don’t I have aloe vera and why don’t I own any sacks to wear to school tomorrow?)
Adding my name, professor’s name, class, date, and maybe birthdays of all my nephews and nieces for good measure makes the paper longer
Dang, I love block quotes
Wow, having to add transitions between ideas makes the paper longer too. Things are going great.
Hmm, Facebook rejuvenation breaks take a long time . . . why is it past 3.00 AM now?
Well, there are four pages when you hit Courier New . . . here's to the language barrier and big English words impressing my professor, I'm imminently succumbing to the deep forces of compulsory symphonious adulations of a sensory perception which Hamlet referred to as the potential solution to his persistent question which has captivated the creative imaginations of English literature critics (BSers) for millennia. (I'm sleeping).
The novelty is SO overrated. Old news to me. I was already doing it Sophomore year, when Lizzie and I used to sit in the back of a particular professor's class and literally write half-minute-by-second accounts of what was going on in his class (complete with notes) to stay awake.
In the same spirit.
Recipe for a Paper
Pages of book started during Holy Week lines (a time of great preparedness)
Pages of book sorta ended 1 ½ month later (a time of great procrastination)
Middle pages unremembered and loosely underlined on trains (a time of great tiredness and boredom)
Deadline that I thought was Friday
New deadline that the teacher apparently set for Wednesday (yesterday)
Friends coming to the beach today (Thursday)
NEW New deadline personally set for Friday (hey, I was working at the school conference on Wednesday – how could I email it in while I was working?)
The consoling thought that I only work under pressure anyways
The realization (forgotten after every paper) that I have to mull something over for awhile before I can spit out coherent thoughts (time to start new blog post, this'll take awhile)
A desire to be edgy and original (rejecting all opening sentences for two hours)
Reoccurring curses that I simply cannot start writing until I have a good opening line (repeated and yet forgotten with every paper)
Doubts at why I ever thought I could write
Doubts at why I thought studying would be better than working (quickly discarded)
Spurt of confidence as I remember previous reputation as Queen English Major (i.e. Master BSer)
Inspirational food (8 crackers with spreadable cheese and salami . . . to help with all the calories the sun burned off today while changing my skin from white to florescent pink with beforementioned friends . . . maybe stretching the skin will make it less pink, blah)
Inspirational idea that maybe I should look at the book for ideas on what to write about the book (clearly from God, thoughts like that don’t just come to people)
Skimming last 50 never-read pages of book (huh. So that’s what it was all about?)
Deciding to write about Truth and Public Opinion (because things with easy answers are so boring when you’re two days past deadline)
Deciding that blog posts really do help the creative juices flow
Thinking that maybe I should actually write the second page of the paper since it’s 12.36 AM now (sleep would be nice)
Happiness pressing “Courier New” and having less than a page turn into a page and a half
Remembering old quirk that creativity doesn’t flow while using Courier New
Five minute break to ponder about writers being neurotic and having quirks and wondering if it’s a bad thing
Deciding that no one can call me an Edgar Allen Poe
Wondering who WOULD want to be like Edgar Allen Poe? (druggie on poppies)
Returning to paper, Times New Roman again
Double spacing doesn’t impede creative juices
Decide the best way to deal with the paper is to set up a scenario of “what a person with minimal intelligence would inevitably conclude if he read this book” and work through that with the hope that my own minimal intelligence can accurately guess what the reader might think . . .because somehow role-playing is going to make this a lot easier, and if the paper stinks maybe the professor will give the hypothetical near-idiot a bad grade instead of me
Finally step away from hypothetical confused person and start writing authoritatively as the voice of fact and truth (God-like omniscience and confidence)
Keane is great writing music
If I flunk out of school, I could make money heating Siberia with the body warmth emanating from my back and thighs (ouch ouch ouch why don’t I have aloe vera and why don’t I own any sacks to wear to school tomorrow?)
Adding my name, professor’s name, class, date, and maybe birthdays of all my nephews and nieces for good measure makes the paper longer
Dang, I love block quotes
Wow, having to add transitions between ideas makes the paper longer too. Things are going great.
Hmm, Facebook rejuvenation breaks take a long time . . . why is it past 3.00 AM now?
Well, there are four pages when you hit Courier New . . . here's to the language barrier and big English words impressing my professor, I'm imminently succumbing to the deep forces of compulsory symphonious adulations of a sensory perception which Hamlet referred to as the potential solution to his persistent question which has captivated the creative imaginations of English literature critics (BSers) for millennia. (I'm sleeping).
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Revelations and such
One of my favorite parts about living in Italy is seeing its glorious flat fields.
Ok, this isn't really a field, it's a bunch of flowers grown wild by the Appian Way on a slightly curved landscape, but I don't have a picture of a flat field, so visualize with me, people.
I lived in Delaware until I was about ten, soaking in all its hills and plains of crops and cattle (with the occasional llama farm thrown in), and something in me still rejoices when I see a long stretch of flatness bursting with tight skinny rows of leafy shoots. Its greenness makes it so incredibly alive, as it lets the wind (not like it has a choice) create lush and energetic waves of motion that are yet completely settled and at peace. In a grand way, a field is the manifestation of man's hand upon nature in the most organic and starkly necessary manner. No one furrows and plants a field of crops for its pure aesthetic value. But it is lovely and full nonetheless.
Such thoughts come into one's mind, apparently, when one is decked out (casually) on a train en route to Roma and I . . umm, "one" . . .ought to be studying for a test on the General Theory of Communication. A revelation that my book just threw at me: Communication involves a sender, a receiver, and a message.
Hmmm.
More relevant-to-my-intelligence-level revelations of this week:
1). You can see more of Rome with your family in two weeks than you've seen while living there for six months. Without getting bored at all.
The kid isn't bored. He's tired. I had the time of my life toting them around. Hope they've recovered somewhat!
2. Nothing is more satisfying after a wretched day than snatching red-handled kitchen scissors and applying them to your hair. Happiness and layers ensue. No living entities were harmed in the process. AND - I haven't touched a rubber band in three days. Call the Pope, it's a miracle!
And while you're calling him, ignore the tired, it's 12.20 AM and I just had my first mixed drink in 2 months expression on my face. Carbombs, nachos, chicken nuggets and apple pie a la mode in an Irish Pub are the most glorious things you can imagine after months away from the States.
3. Sometimes it is absolutely necessary to buy, on a whim with your Czech friend, red leather shoes that channel vintage and have 4 inch chunk high heels. And then to wear them. D.C. taught me well. I'm proud that I've still got it in me to pull these things off (which was quite a literal thought after five hours and a walk from the Colloseum to Largo Argentina).
4. Catholicism may sound weird to unbelievers, and let's face it, sometimes even to us it is weird at times (It's thought to be a good thing to pray in front of a bone?), but its also a truth that its beauty and (without faith, odd) logic has a way of wrapping its sharp realities around your heart and its own fumbling motions in such manner that you cannot stay alien to it long.
Glamor shot from the Gesu.
5. And sometimes it is absolutely necessary to accept the fact that I need to sleep every once and awhile. A domani!
Ok, this isn't really a field, it's a bunch of flowers grown wild by the Appian Way on a slightly curved landscape, but I don't have a picture of a flat field, so visualize with me, people.
I lived in Delaware until I was about ten, soaking in all its hills and plains of crops and cattle (with the occasional llama farm thrown in), and something in me still rejoices when I see a long stretch of flatness bursting with tight skinny rows of leafy shoots. Its greenness makes it so incredibly alive, as it lets the wind (not like it has a choice) create lush and energetic waves of motion that are yet completely settled and at peace. In a grand way, a field is the manifestation of man's hand upon nature in the most organic and starkly necessary manner. No one furrows and plants a field of crops for its pure aesthetic value. But it is lovely and full nonetheless.
Such thoughts come into one's mind, apparently, when one is decked out (casually) on a train en route to Roma and I . . umm, "one" . . .ought to be studying for a test on the General Theory of Communication. A revelation that my book just threw at me: Communication involves a sender, a receiver, and a message.
Hmmm.
More relevant-to-my-intelligence-level revelations of this week:
1). You can see more of Rome with your family in two weeks than you've seen while living there for six months. Without getting bored at all.
The kid isn't bored. He's tired. I had the time of my life toting them around. Hope they've recovered somewhat!
2. Nothing is more satisfying after a wretched day than snatching red-handled kitchen scissors and applying them to your hair. Happiness and layers ensue. No living entities were harmed in the process. AND - I haven't touched a rubber band in three days. Call the Pope, it's a miracle!
And while you're calling him, ignore the tired, it's 12.20 AM and I just had my first mixed drink in 2 months expression on my face. Carbombs, nachos, chicken nuggets and apple pie a la mode in an Irish Pub are the most glorious things you can imagine after months away from the States.
3. Sometimes it is absolutely necessary to buy, on a whim with your Czech friend, red leather shoes that channel vintage and have 4 inch chunk high heels. And then to wear them. D.C. taught me well. I'm proud that I've still got it in me to pull these things off (which was quite a literal thought after five hours and a walk from the Colloseum to Largo Argentina).
4. Catholicism may sound weird to unbelievers, and let's face it, sometimes even to us it is weird at times (It's thought to be a good thing to pray in front of a bone?), but its also a truth that its beauty and (without faith, odd) logic has a way of wrapping its sharp realities around your heart and its own fumbling motions in such manner that you cannot stay alien to it long.
Glamor shot from the Gesu.
5. And sometimes it is absolutely necessary to accept the fact that I need to sleep every once and awhile. A domani!
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Tour Guiding
It's Easter week and my parents and nephew are in town to celebrate with me! Our treks so far have taken us to:
The Santa Marinella Beach
Down by the rocks
The Pantheon
To many a pizzeria
Many a church
The Trevi Fountain
And of course, St. Peter's.
I have assumed the position of paparazzi for my nephew. It's not such a bad job. More to come later!
The Santa Marinella Beach
Down by the rocks
The Pantheon
To many a pizzeria
Many a church
The Trevi Fountain
And of course, St. Peter's.
I have assumed the position of paparazzi for my nephew. It's not such a bad job. More to come later!
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
In His presence, with the word "Hosannah"
If I could choose only one week out of my entire life to be in Rome, I would choose Holy Week. It contains the indescribably beautiful sense that arises when you turn your eyes to look at the Cross and Corpus you commemorate - and then turn to see the Pope, the Cardinals, Bishops, Priests and Nuns gathered together around Him. When you afterwards turn inside yourself with eyes closed, and join in prayer with the congregation of thousands surrounding you, pilgrims from every nook and cranny of the globe.
You know, then, in a very concrete way, that your Faith is not something abstract for you to spout out allegiance to and then forget. It is a something that demands to be lived. As the Holy Father has emphasized repeatedly throughout his pontificate, Christ is a person to be known. And you know that you are willing, with your mind and your heart gathered with those fellow thousands, to follow that call.
There is something intensely meaningful and necessary in the physical participation of the rituals of our Faith. It isn't about what you get from it. It's not about trying to rack up Grace Points or Purgatory Exemptions for yourself through the Give-A-Little-to-God Slot Machine. It's about the love. The love that is shown from placing yourself in God's presence - with the boredom and distractions that come with it. It's about sacrificing the thought of "What I Could Be Doing," and trusting that God is at work upon you. And it's about the sense of identity and commitment that arises when you do consciously yourself as a participant in the mysteries.
The Mass at Saint Peter's for Palm Sunday was one of such experiences. From the moment the first palm-bearers started processing up to the obelisk, followed by a stream of red cardinals and culminating in the arrival of the Holy Father, you received a profound sense that you were participating in something very beautiful, very sacred - and very necessary.
Pope Benedict XVI received a fair amount of media attention after the Palm Sunday liturgy, due to his strong words denouncing the kidnap and murder of the Chaldean Archbishop in Iraq Paulos Faraj Rahho. His words were as follows:
"At the end of this solemn celebration in which we have meditated on Christ's Passion, I would like to recall the late Chaldean archbishop of Mosul, Monsignor Paulos Faraj Rahho, who tragically died a few days ago. His beautiful witness of fidelity to Christ, to the Church and his people, whom he did not want to abandon despite numerous threats, moves me to cry out forcefully and with distress: Enough with the bloodshed, enough with the violence, enough with the hatred in Iraq! And at the same time I make an appeal to the Iraqi people, who for five years have endured the consequences of a war that has provoked upheaval in its civil and social life: Beloved Iraqi people, lift up your heads and let it be you yourselves who, in the first place, rebuild your national life! May reconciliation, forgiveness, justice and respect for the civil coexistence of tribes, ethnic groups and religious groups be the solidary way to peace in the name of God"
The powerful emotion that carried these words was staggering. The media - Associated Press and Brietbart, among others - were quick to pounce on his address and say that the Pope denounced the War in Iraq again. To my understanding, it was less of a denouncement than an appeal to the Iraqis to congregate, focus, and work to end the violence of radical extremists - the ones who are continuing the bloodshed.
I'm posting a link this video clip - not so much for the coverage, but for a taste of the incredible music and the beautiful aerial shot of the Vatican during the Mass. The music was truly sublime. Buzz has it that music is better when the Sistine Chapel Chior isn't singing. Ouch.
Pope: 'Enough with the Violence' in Iraq
And finally, a link to the Papal Homily for Palm Sunday, "To Recognize God We Must Abandon the Pride that Blinds Us," compliments of the fantastic Catholic news-service Zenit. If you don't receive them in your inbox every day, sign up!
Papal Homily for Palm Sunday
Best lines:
"As Christians, all of this must make us think today: Is our faith pure and open enough that, beginning from it, the "pagans" -- the persons today who are seeking and have their questions -- can also intuit the light of the one God, can associate themselves with our prayer in the atriums of faith and by their seeking perhaps become worshippers? Does the awareness that greed is idolatry also reach our heart and our life practices? Do we not perhaps also allow idols to enter even into the world of our faith? Are we disposed to let the Lord purify us again and again, allowing him to chase out of us and the Church what is contrary to him?"
and
"But, as always from the fall of Adam, the failure of men becomes an occasion for a still greater commitment on the part of God's love in regard to us."
Friday, March 14, 2008
Didja know? Catholic stats and other such stuff
So.
One minute ago I sent in my fifteen page Research Project, known throughout the Santa Croce communication halls as the dreaded "Ricerca." (Ree.Cherk.Ah.) It wasn't pretty. It wasn't the best. But it's done. We had to look up a ton of data for the Pope's upcoming visit to the United States. Some of it was absolutely fascinating.
For instance, did you have any idea that Catholics constitute 23.9% of the United States Population? Or that roughly 10% of all Americans are former Catholics? That's sad, considering that 31% of Americans were raised in the Catholic Faith.
Some other interesting tidbits:
41% of American Catholics are aged 30-49.
58% are married
61% have no children at home
There were 58,632 priests in 1965; in 2005, there were 42,528.
There were 8,325 graduate-level seminarians in 1965; in 2005, there were 3,308
81% of Americans believe in Heaven, but only 69% believe in Hell.
Virginia's population is 14% Catholic; New York's is 39%; New Jersey is at 42%.
USA Today has the highest circulation in the United States, followed by the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times.
So that's it: I'm done! Easter break has officially started for me, starting NOW. The parents and one of the awesomest nephews in the world will be arriving here for Holy Week (Santa Settimana) on Wednesday. In between planning tour routes and buying groceries, I'm planning on reminding myself what Rome feels like without a bookbag on my shoulder. A presto - until the next post!
One minute ago I sent in my fifteen page Research Project, known throughout the Santa Croce communication halls as the dreaded "Ricerca." (Ree.Cherk.Ah.) It wasn't pretty. It wasn't the best. But it's done. We had to look up a ton of data for the Pope's upcoming visit to the United States. Some of it was absolutely fascinating.
For instance, did you have any idea that Catholics constitute 23.9% of the United States Population? Or that roughly 10% of all Americans are former Catholics? That's sad, considering that 31% of Americans were raised in the Catholic Faith.
Some other interesting tidbits:
41% of American Catholics are aged 30-49.
58% are married
61% have no children at home
There were 58,632 priests in 1965; in 2005, there were 42,528.
There were 8,325 graduate-level seminarians in 1965; in 2005, there were 3,308
81% of Americans believe in Heaven, but only 69% believe in Hell.
Virginia's population is 14% Catholic; New York's is 39%; New Jersey is at 42%.
USA Today has the highest circulation in the United States, followed by the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times.
So that's it: I'm done! Easter break has officially started for me, starting NOW. The parents and one of the awesomest nephews in the world will be arriving here for Holy Week (Santa Settimana) on Wednesday. In between planning tour routes and buying groceries, I'm planning on reminding myself what Rome feels like without a bookbag on my shoulder. A presto - until the next post!
And I thought Italian was hard
There's nothing like returning to your roots. Through an odd set of links, I just stumbled upon a translation of the Bible into Maltese:
Maltese Bible
I think the mere book titles should be enough to give you a flavor. Brave souls can venture deeper. I only wish I could say I can read it!
Maltese Bible
I think the mere book titles should be enough to give you a flavor. Brave souls can venture deeper. I only wish I could say I can read it!
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Real Deal: Skiing in Aosta
Ok, folks, the teasing time is over! Father Avram just uploaded 57 beautiful photos of our ski/snowboarding trip to Facebook, and I've happily stolen a few:
Us with the view:
A typical scene as we flew down the mountain. Notice the little dot-like things at the bottom on the hill? That's Aosta.
What Aosta looks like at a slightly lower altitude:
Us again, at the top of the insanely curvy "intermediate" hill.
Nicole, the greatest trooper ever!
More view.
Our lovely hostess Umbretta, second only to my mom as the greatest cook in the world:
Fr. Avram, me and Nicole:
Us with the view:
A typical scene as we flew down the mountain. Notice the little dot-like things at the bottom on the hill? That's Aosta.
What Aosta looks like at a slightly lower altitude:
Us again, at the top of the insanely curvy "intermediate" hill.
Nicole, the greatest trooper ever!
More view.
Our lovely hostess Umbretta, second only to my mom as the greatest cook in the world:
Fr. Avram, me and Nicole:
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