Friday, September 14, 2007

#16: Faith and Time

Time. For me, cloisters in Rome are defined by their effect on the passage of time. Depending on which cloister I chose to visit, time could move so quickly that I would leave unsettled and exhilarated, or so slowly that minutes would stretch into hours and days.

The cloister of Santi Quattro Coronati had the power to stop time. The morning I spent in that serene space was a peaceful lifetime of silent meditation. Most passerby would never guess what the castle-like basilica, topped with a 4th century bell tower, hid within its imposing walls. This fortress on a hill was not the least bit inviting. From a distance, it looked as though the building had been neatly sliced out from a single block of sandstone by a cleaver, sharp and unforgiving. Extreme age notwithstanding, its exterior angles remained defined and powerful, supported by the strength of a noticeably substantial foundation. Images of a giant hammer pounding a stone stake into the ground came to mind; with metal bars over squinting windows, this square stake looked like a prison. Indeed, bricks forming the outside walls near the ground were warped and cracked, as if someone had forcefully driven the entire building into the surface of the earth. Bricks versus ground. Ground won, and the bricks buckled in defeat; now the stones wanted revenge. I half-expected to see a glint of cannon in the tower. I see you. Now leave.

Surely this could not be one of the most beautiful churches in Rome?

Past the shadowy pews. The church still threatened. A marble basin jumped out from behind a column, ready to strike. But the blustery and very talkative nun beckoned us into the inner cloister, coaxing and fussing all the while. Sunlight! The marble behind me fell motionless and shrunk backwards against the pillar, as if chastised by the light. An arcade of delicate round arches obscured a better view of what lay ahead, but somehow several small slivers of sun made their way through the crush of bodies into the darkness of the church. They pierced the crowd, cut through the darkness like an array of flying knives, transforming and multiplying as people shuffled through the doorway.

Waiting to greet me on the other side of the door was it – a hulking brown bleacher-like stand of postcards for sale. Its careless coarseness was completely out of place in the neat brick hallway that, like the arcade of arches, ran the perimeter of the cloister. I was happy to discover that if I sat in one of the archways, the corner columns hid it from view.

My eyes could finally leave the unsightly brown, and traveled across the sun-soaked central space to rest instead on the fountain, the focal point of the cloister. The fountain was one of the plainest I had ever seen in Rome, a rough-hewn angular stone bowl resting on an unadorned column. The fact that it was so unusually plain made it all the more alluring; we usually saw lavish decorations, statues (I recalled the seahorses of the Trevi) and detailed carvings, even gold leaf - not the case here. No stone gargoyles or animals spouting water from their mouths. In each corner of the fountain’s bowl, a hole allowed water to drip straight down in into the surrounding shallow pea-green moat. Framing the moat was a gravel path that branched out to meet patches of iridescent grass, so dark green even in the direct sunlight that it was almost unnatural. The white gravel paths, like the grass, also had a blindingly iridescent multi-dimensional quality that I could not place; I could have stayed forever to ponder this and watch the water fall, meditations to the sound of the fountain’s gentle trickling.


All of a sudden I was hit by wave of extreme self-consciousness; I felt like I had intruded into someone’s private space. The tones of burbling water rose and fell like a human voice, but these were the subdued tones of private thoughts, not of public conversation. And yet I wanted all else to be quiet so I could hear the fountain spill its soul. Opening the Velcro fastenings on my bag was a source of unbearable cacophony – should I rip the Velcro more slowly and try for subtlety, make it less audible? Or should I tear my bag open as fast as possible and get the terror over with?

As I pondered this new dilemma, the water burbled on. The stone under each spigot was worn and eroded away from hundreds of years of water tracing paths down the side of the bowl and gouging a deep notch into the surface. I would not be surprised if the inner cloister continued to look exactly as we had left it for a thousand years, save for the deepening of this gash in the rock; a seemingly insignificant trickle of water carving stone.

An Alfa Romeo sped out of the Santi Quattro Coronati as if heralding our return from isolation to the modern bustle of Rome. Would a visit to the cloister to the Bramante cloister in Santa Maria della Pace provide any respite?

Not at all. No vegetation, no benches, no fountain to ponder. The Pace cloister was a simple courtyard, with two white concrete strips forming an “X” centered about a small concrete mound that covered a drain. Despite the lack of scenery, time was of the essence in this bustling cloister. Sounds from the open-air internet café on the upper level drifted downwards, past the immaculate stucco façade, into the courtyard below where I sat. Is the café still open? Faster! Where’s my coffee? You didn’t forget my order did you? It seemed like everyone, a mix of tourists and locals alike, was in a hurry that afternoon. Cell phone chatter was a constant presence. True, it was a confined, walled space, but chaotic Rome had moved in and was here to stay.

A sparkling new white stucco façade encased the ground level, faded gray and yellow columns resided farther up, and crumbling apartments occupied the space next to the sky. Different degrees of wear for the different stories of the building. Whereas time had forgotten to touch the pristine Coronati cloister, here it made its presence felt constantly.

Time had moved in with Rome, wallowing in Pace like some couch-bound welfare dad. Dad had told his crumbling household that it would be alright, things would work out, everything would be fine - sorry everyone, I think God has left town for now but I'm sure he'll be back soon. You can go ahead and leave him a message. He might get back to you, or he may not. But keep hoping, kids. Things are gonna get better from here on out, I promise. How about you make yourself some coffee?

The milk is tan and broken with bubbles on the surface, smooth foam in the middle, solid white near the ground. Such are the walls, like espresso and steamed milk.


Out of a back room emerged group of young priests in long black robes. Make that priests-in-training. Some members of the group were no more than teenagers, fresh from school, looking to make their way in the world. Standing together in a tight circle, they pulled at their robes and stiff white collars uneasily, clearly not yet used to the feel of their new garments. Occasionally they would exchange wardrobe check votes-of-confidence with their neighbors, followed by some hopping in place or nervous giggling. Yes, priests can giggle. Learn something new every day. One particularly youthful-looking priest with curly hair held a silver-pink cell phone to his ear. Unbroken shoes echoed on the smooth walls and miniature cobblestones as he left the group.

Wait, wait. One second. The service can wait, God can wait - I have to take this, it's my old bud from high school. What God? One who cannot curb Time, lets it run wild? Hang on, I have to make a call.

The circle grew to include more senior priests (easily identified by graying hair and perhaps a potbelly). And then the sounds of mirth were dying, slowly and reluctantly. The curly-haired priest hastily ended his phone conversation and returned with a jog and a sheepish grin. Maybe he would get a lecture later about running from neglect, responsibility.

Did the young priests feel it too, abandoned by Pace's absent God?

Faith was Coronati’s unspoiled strength. Resilience. Timelessness. Solitude. And Pace was humanity, laughing without certainty. Opposite in its imperfection and chaos.

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