"Starting from anywhere / At any time or season / It would always be the same: you would have to put off / Sense and notion." — T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
The lovely entrance to the home of my niece Andrea Bigcraft is a metaphor for the welcome I have experienced during these weeks of promoting my memoir Far from Home. The doors of family and friends have opened wide in Oakland, California, Ashland and Portland, Oregon. It is the hospitality Judy Collins celebrates in “Song for Judith”: “Open the door and come on in.”
My love for doors did not just arrive because of a published book. Entrances are both works of art and a way to learn about treasures inside. Below are my door photos from travels to Denmark’s Kronberg Slot, better known as Hamlet’s Castle, and a building in Riga, Latvia.
Years ago, Sister Helena Brand, SNJM, literature scholar and extraordinary educator, introduced me to the theme of hospitality. We studied Greek myths, like The Odyssey and the story of Philemon and Baucis (so similar to the angel story in Genesis 19). A poor couple welcomes into their home Jupiter and Mercury, the gods disguised as weary travelers. Rembrandt, Rubens, and van Oost depicted the story in art, but this engraving caught my eye.
There is no beautiful door leading into the cottage, simply a wooden structure meant to keep out the cold, but open to pilgrims. “Come on in,” Baucis and Philemon say. “Share our fire, fruit, eggs, and wine.”
Nancy Haught’s wise and wonderful Sacred Strangers explores the same theme of open doors in Scripture. The universal lesson is this: welcome others into your home because you never know if and when you will be in the presence of the Divine. And the way in is through a door.
If I had my preference, entries would possess carvings, color, and beauty, but more importantly, there would be someone on the other side ready to turn the knob and share hospitality, like Andrea. Judy Collins’ song continues, “I’m so glad to see you, my friend.”
So here I come, full circle, to where I started with my Facebook post, outside the splendid woodwork of the Frick Museum doors, sure that welcome and beauty are right across the threshold.
On a sunny day in Redding, California, the magnificent Sundial Bridge tilted in greeting. Santiago Calatrava’s design is a glass-decked wonder, 217 feet high. That day the Sacramento River glimmered into a diamond-flecked waterway, and I was awed by the bridge’s 710 foot span across the water.
Often we hear of “intentional slant” as partisans bicker, but crossing Sundial has little to do with politics. What a phenomenon to have a creation meant to tilt one way or the other. There are plenty of architectural designs that had no intention of ending in a slant. Tourists bemoan the leaning of Bologna’s Garisenda Tower and London’s Big Ben. The listing often occurs in foundation issues, soft ground, or unexpected geological faults.
In direct contrast are the intentional slants of The Gate of Europe in Spain and the Nationale-Nederlanden in Prague—the latter referred to as “Fred & Ginger.”
Architects know that tilt offers fluidity, natural light, dancing movement, and shading.
Calatrava, in his design for the world’s largest working sundial, takes the knowledge one step further. Telling time is as old as our first ancestors watching the sun rise and the sun set. The irony of the sundial is not that people stared endlessly into the sun, but that they studied shadows, and that is what his creation does: casts shadows on a large dial plate and into the nature garden—the gradual ticking of nature’s clock.
Emily Dickinson wrote about the tilt of life which applies to poets and architects and travelers across a bridge:
Tell all the truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight . . .
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind.
The Festival of Freedom, April’s flowering dogwoods, and the Resurrection tell and retell familiar stories. Passover commemorates God’s people breaking free of enslavement. Spring discovers new nests in the crotch of a tree. Easter celebrates the risen Christ. Age-old traditions, arriving annually, encourage us to be like my sister Mary: clasp hands in anticipation and then sit high on Life.
One of my favorite poems is Swinburne’s “Atalanta in Calydon.” These verses, humming with expectation, describe a similar passing from grief to joy, death to life, past to present:
For winter’s rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in the green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
As long as I can remember, every St. Patrick’s Day had one constant: green mashed potatoes. My mother created this ritual of praties and food coloring to make her Irishman smile. It worked every time.
Yet it was not just St. Patrick’s Day when my family celebrated being Irish. My father had a collection of John McCormick’s 78 records, so that our early vocabulary (along with “See Spot jump!”) included Mother Machree and Tipperary, Minstrel Boy and Tralee. We learned some Irish history from my father’s recitation of Robert Emmet’s speech from the dock, and by the time each of us reached the age of reason (seven years old) we could declare without faltering Emmet’s opening lines:
“My Lords: ‘What have I to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced on me, according to law? I have nothing to say which can alter your predetermination.’”
One of my favorite books was my father’s marbled, battered copy of Thomas Moore’s poetry. From this book I memorized all the verses of “Last Rose of Summer” and “Oft in the Stilly Night”:
Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me
By the time I made my trip to Ireland in 1995, my father had been dead for twenty years, but I felt his spirit with me every step of the way.
Man of fine manners and lover of sports, he would have relished watching the glassblowers in Waterford. And when he saw the hedgerows with the verdant fuchsia spilling down, he would have stopped, just like I did, to snap a photo. Never a swimmer, he still would have crammed into the ferry boat—minus a life jacket—to ride the waves over to the Blasket Islands where crumbling structures remain, bitter remnants of suffering and loneliness of those who lived there until the early 1950s. The Cliffs of Moher would have stunned him: sky and water splattered with rock and grass. Perhaps, after a day and night in Doolin, he would have decided that the hospitality, scenery, and music were fine reasons to stay there forever.
But then my father would have missed Sligo, Yeats’ country, and Coole Park’s Autograph Tree where the Irish literary greats— Shaw, Synge, Lady Gregory, O’Casey, and Yeats—have carved their names.
St. Patrick’s Day is for wearing green and wishing friends and enemies a road that rises in greeting. But the day is also for memories of past times that will, no doubt, slip into the present and flow free into the future. Yeats’ poem “To Ireland in the Coming Times” contains another version of a Happy St. Patrick’s Day greeting:
And Time bade all his candles flare
To light a measure here and there;
And may the thoughts of Ireland brood
Upon a measured quietude.
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
Probably because the Olympics are still in recent memory, the book cover of a Lord of the Sun made me think of those relay runners, beginning in Athens, scaling the steps in Pyeongchang, and placing the torch into the hands of Yuna Kim. What must have it been like for each of the runners and this gold medalist figure skater to complete the lighting? Like containing infinity in the palm of a hand or eternity in an hour?
Some of what we hold is small, like the hummingbird my niece Andrea attracted to her gloved feeding station. Demanded of her may not have been an athlete’s endurance and skill but surely the watcher’s patience and tenderness. How did she sit still so that the bird could trust to eat out of her hand? The same miraculous feeling that arose during the lighting of the Olympic flame Andrea shares with this exquisite photo. This must be the experience of the poet Mary Oliver who writes of the grasshopper—the one with “enormous and complicated eyes”—who eats sugar out of her hand.
There are objects I have held over the years (even a pet rock in the 1970’s; a pet I never bothered to train), but most days I do not consider them precious. Blake’s words remind me that if I look closely, maybe there is a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower. Today I will catch hold of blessings: my Shih Tzu’s tiny face, rosary beads, a Dove soap bar, a mandarin orange, and oh, my soon-to-be published memoir that, at long last, fits perfectly in my hands.
I imagined Moscow as a bleak city, wounded by repression. Although the Kremlin left me wondering about intrigue within its massive complex, and some buildings reminded me of Stalin’s reign, I was in awe of the old architecture, the cathedrals, the Hall of Remembrance, and a subway that is an art museum in itself.
The bigger-than-life expression continued in Novodevichy cemetery, where the dead are honored with spectacular tombs.
So many unique monuments exist: the circus entertainer and his dog, the inventor, the dancer, Raisa Gorbachov, and the six crew members that died in the 1973 Paris Air Show.
And Moscow at night brought a new dimension. We stood on Sparrow Hill, the highest point, and the city spread out below us. We walked Red Square at midnight. We strolled through a park whose pond stretched across to the Novodevichy Convent, the pond, some say, that was Tchaikovsky’s inspiration for Swan Lake. In the dark, near rippling waters, a group of young Russian men insisted upon reciting Pushkin’s Eastern Song:
I think that you were born for this.
To set the poet’s vision burning
To hold him in a trance of bliss
And by sweet words to wake his yearning
Tonight, earlier Russian memories come to mind: Paul Robeson’s new home, Van Cliburn at the piano, Tolstoy’s “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, unending white in Pasternak’s Dr. Zhivago, sables running free in Cruz Smith’s Gorky Park, and the book that hooks me now, Towles’ A Gentleman in Moscow.
Russia, more than a headline. Land of the enigmatic story, I think that you were born for this.
On an Ash Wednesday—long before we knew sugar could hijack our bodies—I kneel with my classmates at the marble altar railing, feel the priest’s thumb mark the sooty cross on my forehead, and hear him murmur in Latin, “Remember, man, thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.” For six weeks I sacrifice what is dearest—Heath bars, Hershey bars, Milk Duds, and Black Crows. Candy. For forty days we four Kennedy kids do not eat it, but we do stash it. In the hallway, in the scarred top drawer, we line up our candy. Abstemious child that I am, daily I sacrifice, and daily I count my treasures.
Today’s theology says that sacrificing sweets may not be the best preparation for death and resurrection, but I hold to old ways. Candy, for the most part, holds little appeal, but doing without peppermint chocolate in my coffee? Now, that is denial of the highest form. Once more, for six weeks, I drink my coffee straight, counting the days when I can scoop a rounded teaspoon of Stephen’s Candycane Cocoa into my caffeine.
Lent’s color is purple, the hue of triumph and defeat, death and resurrection. Six weeks set aside annually to let bruise and dignity, darkness and elegance share a common table. In the delightful Hailstones and Halibut Bones, Mary O’Neill writes of purple’s conundrums: jam and a pout, air without light and violets in spring.
Years ago, my wise mentor, Sister Theona, read aloud T.S. Eliot’s “Ash Wednesday”: The desert in the garden the garden in the desert. She would look up, as if to say. “Do you hear this delicious wisdom?” Wanting to please, I nodded, the rhythmic words resonating, the meaning far beyond me—except for the poet’s repeated prayer, like a cup brimming with contradiction:
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.
For the next forty days or so, I will hang out with Old Testament passages, aware of my purple shirts and the purple crocuses, hoping to face the truth of my falsehoods, trying not to care too much, even about the foaming chocolate coffee to come someday soon.