The Power of Place: A Lapsed Catholic in Italy

For a lapsed Catholic, traveling to Italy can seem a bit surreal.  I instantly recognize most of the ubiquitous religious images, from the bust of a blue-veiled young woman (the Virgin Mary, of course) to the painting of a blonde maiden holding her eyes on a plate (who other than Saint Lucy?). But though familiar, I see them less as objects of devotion, and more with the dispassion of a classical archaeologist viewing a statue of the Roman goddess Juno or the Etruscan Minerva.

Nowhere is this feeling stronger than at the Vatican Museum.

Intent on seeing the Sistine Chapel, I enter the museum on a sweltering afternoon in July, the height of the tourist season. Although I am traveling alone, I am herded through turnstiles, past ticket windows, along corridors, through halls filled with priceless works of art. The power and wealth of this papal legacy takes my breath away—and makes me feel ashamed. Two themes run through the collection: classical gore, think the The Rape of Europa, and papal glory, expressed in gold-embroideries of crossed keys and papal crowns. There are few, if any, images of the Madonna or the pious saints, let alone the humble carpenter who started it all.

After a couple of hours of winding through this stifling treasure gallery, my section of the crowd  finally nears the Sistine Chapel. At the entry, signs in several languages remind us that this is a place of worship, but inside the scene is more akin to an airport terminal. A lone guard periodically shouts, in English and Italian, “Silencio!”  “No photos!” Next to me, a young woman asserts, “We’re from Queens and we don’t listen!” as she and her friend take photos of each other, as do other groups of tourists.

In fact, the only people not armed with cameras are the groups of nuns in long black habits standing in small clusters against the high walls, presumably trying to have a religious experience in the midst of the international cacophony. As for me, I crane my neck and squint at the images of Adam and God on the ceiling high above.

I start to count the number of people in the room, but give up; there must be at least 500 of us. How different the experience might be for me, not to mention the nuns, if the guard let in only a few dozen people at a time.

Over the next few days, I find my feelings towards religious art remain largely dispassionate, although I am drawn to one painting in a side chapel of Siena’s cathedral in which a young woman saint wears an enraptured look while her parents’ faces express fear and worry: the juxtaposition of youthful bliss and parental anxiety resonates with my own experience.

This theme is certainly present in Italian director Franco Zefferilli’s tribute to Saints Francis and Clare: “Brother Sun, Sister Moon.” Lapsed Catholic or not, I am still thrilled to be in Asissi, home of my favorite childhood saint. Entering the Saint Francis Basilica from the top of the three-story structure, I walk into a soaring Gothic cathedral with its famous Giotti frescos. Although cracked with age and earthquakes, the paintings still shine with pale jewel colors of peridot, topaz, tourmaline, and aquamarine. I am touched by their beauty, but the content leaves me feeling distant.

Descending to the next level, I come upon the stout pillars, rounded arches and lowered ceilings of the earlier, Romanesque era. In the central sanctuary, a priest is celebrating Mass. I am not comfortable joining in, but not yet ready to leave the church. Looking around, I notice the stairway leading down to the crypt. With the masses of tourists occupied, this seems to be the perfect moment to visit the saint’s grave. I grab the iron rail and follow the stone steps down.

The small crypt is lined with bricks bare of artwork and furnished with a dozen folding chairs facing a rock cleft. I am not alone, but nearly so.  In the relative stillness, I hear or sense a murmur, a pulse that seems to surround me like a low hum. Is it creaks from the aging ventilation systems, or vibrations of worshippers from the floor above? Is it emanations from the buried saint, or perhaps the power of an ancient deity or the land itself? Whatever the cause and whatever its meaning, the feeling of something more, something deeper continues the entire time I am in the crypt.

As I leave the cathedral, moved by the wordless experience, I dab my forehead with holy water in a gesture to the ambivalence of belief and the power of place.

The Other Worlds of Glastonbury

Fairy wings flutter in the audience as the “burlesque fairy” at the front of the room blows kisses of green glitter. In the crowd are pirates, flower fairies, and even geishas as well as aficionados of Steam Punk style (think Victorian in goggles a lá Jules Verne). A man in moon boots and a woman in a tutu, are dressed all in white with strands of blue LED lights. In a corner, two mermaids are combing their long tresses, flapping their tails, and showing the few children in the room their treasure box of shells. The band comes on, the blonde lead singer in black leather opening with an Irish jig that gets the crowd moving, and then switching to hard rock that keeps them dancing until the clock strikes midnight. Welcome to the sold-out Avalon Faery Ball of 2012 in Glastonbury.

A mid-sized English town, west of London, in the Somerset Levels on the Salisbury Plain, Glastonbury is best known for its eponymous music festival. Every other summer, thousands of young people camp on a field outside the town, braving mud and rain for a chance to hear some of the best contemporary bands. Late at night the recorded music, spun by one or another of the DJs simultaneously performing, is piped through special headphones, so the dancers move to different beats in silence.

But on this weekend just before Halloween, we are here not for the music, but for the fairies. Also known as All Hallows’ Eve, this night before All Saints Day is a time when the veil between the worlds, the living and the dead, the human and the fey folk, is thought to be at its thinnest. What better time to visit this New Age center with ancient roots, a place where belief in the otherworldly springs like indigenous flora from the land itself.

For in ancient Britain, the Somerset Levels would flood, and the North Sea was much closer then than now, so that Glastonbury, with its sprawling Abbey and Tor hill, appeared to be an island shrouded in mists. The Lady of the Lake supposedly lived in the waters; she was the Faery Queen who gave King Arthur his magical sword, while a plaque in the Abbey ruins marks the graves of the legendary king and his lady, Guinevere.

Our first day in Glastonbury, we woke before dawn to climb the Tor, a grassy hill topped by St. Michael’s Tower, the only remains of a nunnery that thrived here before King Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries, including the great Glastonbury Abbey. After breakfast at our B&B, we attended mass in a small, whitewashed Anglican chapel with frescos of early Saxon saints on the grounds of the Abbey.

In the afternoon, we entered Chalice Well Garden, named for a goblet found in Victorian times, supposedly of ancient Near Eastern origin. Some believe this same cup was used at the Last Supper and that it is the Holy Grail of Arthurian legend. This garden also houses the spring of iron-rich water that flows over the rocks, turning them red. The fount of the Red Spring is covered with a lovely glass-and- oak lid, decorated with two overlapping ovals, a design known as the Vesica Pisces, which has become a symbol for Glastonbury itself. Given its illustrious history, I somehow expected something grander than the manicured lawns and flowerbeds of this rather small property.

But the biggest surprise of the day was the White Springs temple, although I had never even heard of it before coming to Glastonbury. The small, nondescript white-washed building that houses the calcium-rich White Spring  is around the corner from Chalice Well Garden, on a side street leading up to the Tor. The only indication that this is a special place is the tree outside decorated with a multitude of colorful ribbons, presumably representing prayers or thanks to the spirits of the place. Whereas Chalice Well Garden is peaceful and airy, the White Spring temple is chthonic and dark, a place of palpable earth energies, lit by candles and adorned with natural offerings.  Both springs are known for their healing properties.  At the pipes on Wellhouse Lane,  we filled a bottle with water from each spring.

On this, our second visit, the weather was cold and wet, and we had head colds, leading us to spend much of our time indoors.  At the annual Faery Fayre in the converted town hall,  a score of artists plied their wares. One painted my face with green vines and silver glitter. From another I bought a silk scarf hand-painted with a petulant fairy poking her head up through the flowers. Meanwhile, my partner, Michael, found a claw-shaped pendant recycled from a piece made for one of the Harry Potter films - a perfect gift for a friend who loves the Hogwarts crew.  (Love this!!-S.)

We wandered the high street of Glastonbury, browsing in shops selling Buddhist Kuan Yin statutes, Wiccan chalices, and Native American dream-catchers. There were crystals, herbs and incense galore. But best of all were the bookstores. We spent the last rainy afternoon going from one to another.  The bookstores were filled with used and remaindered as well as new books on everything from the I-Ching to Stonehenge, from goblins to Mary Magdalene. I found the hilarious  Wood Nymph Seeks Centaur,  a “mythological dating guide” by Francesca Lia, which left me wondering if I am more of a wood nymph or a fairy or even - yikes -  a banshee.

As we boarded the bus back to London the next morning, laden with our books and containers of water from the Red and White Springs , we looked forward to our return to Glastonbury, with its unique mix of legend and history, archaeology and magic. 

Note: This piece first appeared on the travel blog, epicaro.com.