Love is just love… (Cue birds chirping and man rolling down the hill screaming “Assssssssss you wiiiiish!”)
I’ve noticed this phrase coming from the States a lot lately. It seems to be blazing its trail of quickly becoming this decade’s “lets all just love each other” phrase. Fair enough. I get it.
But c’mon people, we know better. Love is never just love.
“What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you will do with your evenings, how you will spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart and what amazes you with joy and gratitude.” – Pedro Arrupe, SJ
I think Arrupe’s statement gets to the heart of what makes love both powerful, beautiful and, yet, extremely fragile.
If you choose to drive in the wrong direction, you’ll cause an accident. When we drive our attention is not on the signposts exclusively, but on the end of the journey, where we’re going. The destination, and the way of reaching it, entails consequences that become obligatory.
This is the nature of love. Who we love, how we love, what we love and why we love has consequences for our lives and for others—the people we travel with or pass on our way. A child watching a mother who is in love with a commitment-phobe man will likely have her own relationship difficulties in the future. A man addicted—more or less, “in love”—with his job could ultimately lose his family. Without looking at the ultimate aim of love, we can steer ourselves off course. Worse, we can damage others and ourselves along the way.
What we all want, what we’re all aiming for, is the ultimate Good—an amazing, perfect, beautiful love that we all want to grasp. But, I’ve rather begrudgingly come to the conclusion that the only and at the same time most difficult way to reasonably identify the Good is for me is to think of how my choices of who and how I love will affect my life and the lives of others. We are inextricably linked. How I love determines how I, along with the others in my immediate circle and broader community, experience life.
Sure, let’s talk about the meaning and nature of love. But in the process, let’s not minimize what love really requires of us.
Today I was fortunate enough to not only attend the Papal Palm Sunday mass, but also land a really terrific seat. As you’ll notice, my position allowed me unobstructed views of some pretty special people. By special, I don’t only mean the Pope, but rather all who participated in the opening procession. The faces, colors and ages of the laity and religious sisters who took part were reminders of why, as a Christian, I love being part of a Church community that spans the globe.
It was a reminder of the dynamism of the Church; a Church made up of scientists, doctors, Prime Ministers, moms, dads, poor people, rich people, young people, old people. It was a reminder that most the world believes in a God, that it is logical and reasonable to believe that there is an order to creation, and that the West’s secular ideas on “progress” are falling dangerously short. It was a reminder that God’s love for us is incomparably beautiful and, once we open our arms and hearts to it, irresistible.
Mass highlights
The throng of mass attendees (To my left were Spanish priests, behind me were French nuns and a Polish lay couple, in front of me some African lay women, and the list goes on.)
A Scottish man next to a Colombian woman (palm procession)
Two nuns from Africa (palm procession)
An Asian nun between two American scholars (my amici)–one studying Ecumenism, the other Canon Law
An African priest…and, well, a white one too.
A German scholar, ahem, aka. Pope Benedict XVI
I’m taking a course from the remarkable Dominican Fr. Paul Murray, a writer, lecturer, former spiritual advisor to Mother Theresa, and teacher of God and the Poets.
My Valentine’s Day was pretty subdued until I got to listen to an Irish priest sweetly recite love poetry for an hour this evening.
Love poetry? A priest? Yes. Before the likes of D.H. Lawrence or Shakespeare, there was Job, Ecclesiastes, some Psalms, the Christological hymns of Paul, the parables of Jesus….
Fr. Murray covered the frustration of reconciling why Jesus didn’t write the New Testament himself. He explored the reasons why God may have chosen a bunch of beautiful and confusing poetry instead.
He noted why people find it increasingly hard to apply poetry to religion. We can say that we need prose, facts, scientific proof for God. But really—really—we’re afraid of what may happen if the poetry draws us in.
Fair enough. That’s exactly what God wants. He is the Lover, coming to you in the night, begging you to let Him in so he can be with you, His beloved.
Following are two of my favorite “valentines” from this evening.
LOVE
By George Herbert (1593-1632)
LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack’d anything.
‘A guest,’ I answer’d, ‘worthy to be here:’
Love said, ‘You shall be he.’
‘I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.’
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
‘Who made the eyes but I?’
‘Truth, Lord; but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.’
‘And know you not,’ says Love, ‘Who bore the blame?’
‘My dear, then I will serve.’
‘You must sit down,’ says Love, ‘and taste my meat.’
So I did sit and eat.
Song of Solomon 5:2
I sleep, but my heart waketh:
it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying,
Open to me, my sister, my love,
my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew,
and my locks with the drops of the night.
St. Valentine baptizing St. Lucilla, by Jacopo Bassano
Happy Valentine’s Day
xoxo, J
Before returning to Rome for the term, I visited a couple towns in Le Marche.
Urbino is a fairytale-like town with the fabulously preserved ducal palace of Frederico da Montefeltro, who was duke of Urbino from 1444 to 1482. Today the palace is a national museum with a lovely collection of notable Renaissance works.
It was chilly the day I visited, but the weather seemed to make it even more magical.
Entrance into walled historic city center, Urbino
Old cinema, Urbino
Residential alley, Urbino
Pesaro is one of the main ports of Le Marche. It is notable for having excessive amounts of northeastern European sunbathers during summer and, much more alluring, for being the hometown of the composer Rossini. Pastey old men in swimming trunks are not in my vision of a scenic seaside holiday. But my off-season visit turned out to be a great sunbather-free budget city break.
Beach changing stalls, Pesaro
Room with a View, Pesaro
Sunset, Pesaro
Unsurprisingly, my host family mother is lovely cook. Born and raised in Le Marche, she is thoroughly Urbaniese. At the dinner table, the regional dialect is spoken and the regional pasta and sausage specialties are eaten. This pasta is a favorite of mine. The tubular noodles are a mix between pasta and polenta. Yeah, super yummy!
You’ll see that this isn’t exactly a detailed recipe; it’s based on a choppy conversation with her and observation. But, anyone who has made pasta or bread before should catch on. It’s really basic.
Ingredients
- Very fine breadcrumbs
- A lot of parmesan cheese (ratio about 1:3 bread crumbs, or a bit more)
- Lemon zest
- Fresh nutmeg
- Cinnamon (about 1 or 2 teaspoons; this is her personal addition and I’m a fan)
- 7 eggs (use 6, then add the other if the dough is really hard)
- A little flour (about 1 to 2 tablespoons, as needed)
Directions
On a wooden cutting board lay out breadcrumbs and cheese in a circle. Shave the lemon zest and nutmeg into the center, adding a couple teaspoons of cinnamon at the end. It should look like this:
Shaving the nutmeg. Seasoning the pasta mixture.
Then, add the eggs to the center and fold into the dry mixture:
Folding in the eggs. Use fork!
When everything is mixed together and wet, begin kneading the dough to blend together. Continue this until blended (it shouldn’t take a few kneads). The consistency should be like used Play-doh, but grainier. If it is super, duper dry should you add the other egg with the bit of flour. Kneed a couple more times, and then you’re ready.
Cut off small pieces, put into noodle/potato press (with the larger holes, not the small ones) and push like crazy. The noodles should be about 1 ½ to 2” long. If they don’t fall off the press, take a knife and shave them off the press into a metal/aluminum container (pictured behind her).
Pressing the pasta out. It's hard dough, so you'll have to throw your body into it! See?
Chill the noodles in the fridge until read to use.
Cook and serve them in a bit of soup broth. I eat them with some fresh chicken broth. Add your favorite sausage or vegetables, as preferred.
Then, MANGIAAAAA! They are buonissimmo.
Because of Urbania’s location, to the East of the Appenine mountain range and farther North than the more Mediterranean parts of the boot, it gets the occasional snowfall. Considering how nutzo the snow has been in the States this year, I would have been happy not seeing so much as a flake for many years to come. The weatherman had different plans.
My consolation for being stuck in a wet, sloppy snowstorm was the view. Fresh snowfall in an Italian hilltop village is a fairly rare occasion that is quite beautiful.
Urbania snow, outside the wall
Outside the wall; Duke of Urbino's summer palace
Old man with umbrella
She's cut from the pic, but there is a shopowner to the right "shoveling" with a dustpan
My go-to phrase in any foreign language is always: “Okay”/ “sounds good!”/ “that works.” In Italian, this is “va bene.” I have probably said it over 100 times since I arrived.
More about how Italian is treating me….
I am one of only three students in my class. One student is an American frat-like man in his early 20s who is living with his friend in a neighboring town. While quite nice, he gives the impression that he could not possibly enjoy a conversation with a 30-something woman who is “religious” enough to be attending a Pontifical university. It’s almost like he purposely scurries from the classroom before he gives me the chance to say, “Can I come?” I find it quite humorous when I’m not puzzled or insulted.
The other student is Chinese and doesn’t speak any English. Enough said.
The arrangement is terrific for learning Italian, but it’s not making the process easier. For those who haven’t put yourselves in a situation where you are force-fed a new language, in my experience this is how it tends to go:
For the first 24 hours, my eyes are glazed over and I don’t remember anything. Then, I am provided with a set of language tools that should technically get me through the next day. With these I don’t fare much better. I am bombarded with interactions to which I can only contribute words like “carrot” or “bird.”
Currently, my constipated little brain remembers appropriate sentences for many situations long after the moment has passed. Still, there are a few cogent phrases that now roll off my tongue rather nicely. I would like to thank my adopted “nonna” for these “best of”:
- I would like…
- Please pass the…
- Thank you, but I’m full.
- No really, I’m full.
- Everything was absolutely terrific, but I’m full.
- Okay, a little more but then I will be full.
- No, thank you. No, thank you. No, thank you….okay. *sigh*
- Just a little. No really, a little.
- Enough, PLEASE, enough.
It’s 2 p.m. I am still terribly full from my carbo-loading breakfast. Alora, va bene. I am heading out for a walk to stretch my stomach for dinner.
I’m living in Urbania for a month and learning Italian before I finish my Masters coursework in Rome. I ended up in this town of 7k in Le Marche region of Italy on the recommendation of my future residence in Rome, for which I need a basic understanding of Italian.
Le Marche is one of the least touristy regions in Italy. It is on the Adriatic between Florence and Rome. Urbania is a small, hilltop town in this relatively quiet province, so virtually no tourists or English speakers are here to prevent me from stumbling through Italian.
Besides being a quintessential hilltop Italian village, Urbania is really only on a tourist’s radar for its ancient Casteldurante, once the summer palace of the Duke of Urbino and famous for its 16th century Italian ceramics. Today, the town offers traditional ceramic workshops that students can take with their language courses.
As I write this, I sit in a caffe across from a group of eight elderly men engrossed in a heated discussion in Italian—a common occurrence. Outside the crisp, winter breeze smells like a fireplace. The sun glistens on the river that surrounds the wall of the town. Laundry flaps on clotheslines between houses in narrow, cobblestone streets.
Though, it has surprised me how the traditional is so wonderfully juxtaposed with the modern here. Frank Sinatra’s New York is playing in the sleek caffe where I write, wi-fi is available for free in the town center (it is “being fixed” right now…so will see if it ever works while I’m here) and the storefronts include Benetton and chic boutiques with mannequins wearing Armani.
In true Italian style, the town’s personality is a blend of old and new, bucolic and cosmopolitan. There are moments that are little too quiet for me. But, I know I need to soak it up while I can and I’m thinking that the opportunity to walk a little slower, eat a little longer and pray a little stronger is just what the “Doctor” ordered.
Some first snapshots of Urbania…
Early morning fog over Urbania
View from Poor Clare's convent after mass
View of Urbania's old town centre rooftops from across the bridge
The main piazza in town
When planning my flight to Italy I was excited that my best option was to fly TAP Portugal. I never miss a chance to try something new and since I hadn’t yet flown TAP or been to Portugal, it was a no brainer.
TAP flies out of Newark airport. New Jersey is hotbed of Portuguese immigrants (think Mystic Pizza). But, I didn’t realize quite how much of a hotbed until I was suddenly standing in line to board with a whole Portuguese village. How could I tell?
- I was the only blond on plane.
- I was one of the only passengers taller than 5 feet. (No joke.)
- Everyone sitting near me was 60-plus and seemed to have some type of ailment.
- There were at least twenty women on the plane who, if I had wronged them in any way, would have put a hex on me. (Think grandma-from-the-old-country character in a movie.)
- Plane conversations included no less than 10 people.
- “Hugging it out,” laughter and an exchange of contact information seemed to conclude conversations that I thought were arguments.
If you’re short enough, I highly recommend flying TAP (leg room was a bit tight). I also recommend having a stopover in Porto—a stylish yet quaint airport that, surprisingly, doesn’t smell like body odor.
Trying this again. The gap in blog posts was due to many reasons—complications with my volunteer position and, what I will call, a very nice “distraction.” I left Rwanda in July sooner than anticipated and after a beautiful, life-changing experience. With no regrets and a few bruises that easily healed, I’m no worse for the wear.
On to Italia….