Ivory Towers...

Yesterday, while heading to the Grand Bazaar, I stumbled upon extreme beauty.

"If anyone has a camera, the light is hitting that mosque perfectly right now" Keaton remarked while the rest of us were too busy looking at our shoes to notice the humongous place of worship straight in front of us.

As I looked up, my breath was actually held. Revealing my inner nerd, I quipped something about the mosque looking like it was straight out of Minas Tirith...

Honestly, though. This view was abnormal. It felt like we had discovered part of a book that had somehow slipping into our reality for just enough time to be photographed and then disappear.

Absolutely my favorite picture from the trip so far. 

No question.

I definitely wanted to share it somehow. So, when I got into a WiFi zone, I did what any good 20-something would do, and put it up on instagram.

I'm not the biggest fan of constant use of sepia, but I have to say. It made this scene look even more breathtaking.

Cофия, България

So, it took me two years, but I finally ended up back at an Eastern European speakeasy. Thank God.

That was about two years too long. 

"So, if you have it in you for one more, I know of a fantastic spot."

That's how it started.

Then we walked another two blocks talking about Sofian architecture and the similarities and differences between Bulgarian and Turkish cultural quirks. 

I would have kept going, but suddenly Eric said, "Turn here."

I looked up and to the left to see... a pitch black dark alley with a small light in the back. It looked like a garbage alley with an outhouse.

"Really?"

"Yeah, just go down."

I started down the alley, stepping in (I hope) snowmelt puddles, feeling my way by tripping on the uneven concrete tiles.

Made it to the light, turned right up the slight ramp, and pushed open a completely unmarked barn door. I was greeted by the sounds of thirteen different languages, the subtle sounds of mute trumpets and jazz pianos, and the dim lights of candles.

This incredible bar(n) is incredible. It is only lit by candles, no lights, there is no menu, you just have to know what you want, and you have to know someone who knows where it is. Honestly, it's the best bar I've ever been to.

Check out their article on the place here

I tried to take a photo, but the lighting was so dim, I couldn't get anything remotely visible. However, here is a photo taken by spottedbylocals.com

Here's the takeaway from their article:

"They say that in the past this was the place for the intelligentsia and you could only get in if you know the right person. The door was locked and no matter how hard you knock, unless you know the right words, they wouldn’t let you in. During the transition from Communism this place was open to the public but even nowadays the owner refuses to create an Internet site or promote it further."

I'm already excited to go back either tonight or tomorrow.

This city is amazing. I had no idea what to expect from Bulgaria, but wow. 

Just WOW.

This is a place to return to, no questions asked.

O The Places You'll Go...

Wanna know where I've been recently?

Outside the ruins of Miletus...

Inside them... 

And above them... 

In awe of Didyma... 

Completely in love with Aphrodisius... 

Finding myself not afraid in a field of wheat... 

Loving the foreground and background of what I'm seeing... 

Enjoying the cold sunset in Laodecia... 

Entering the gates of Hieropolis... 

Trying to soak up the beauty of the calcium deposits and hot springs in Pamukkale... 

 Wishing I had my trunks for Cleopatra's Pool...

Breaking stereotypes in Cappadocia...

(and I thought they only had mosques in hot weather places) 

Comparing models and the real thing in Capadoccia... 

Tying a knot onto the prayer tree... 

Incense and Rose

We timidly entered the foyer. Our whispers, despite our best efforts, still reverberated off the cold and gray marble. Should we go in? The priest is singing Vespers. How improper would it be to go in now? I don’t know…

Then, we were startled by a loud thud as the door behind us closed. We looked at the shorter, dark-haired man heading our way. “Tamam? Acık?” We asked with our teeny knowledge of Turkish. “Evet. Evet” He replied and threw open the huge church doors.

The sound of vocal harmony flooded our ears as the grandeur of the sanctuary was revealed.  Gold. Marble. Limestone. Silver. Massive columns and portraits. All twelve apostles numbered among uncountable Saints. The song, totally in Greek, meant nothing to us, except it was gorgeous. The divinity of the words was impossible to miss, despite not knowing more than 10 Greek words.

But all of those senses paled in comparison to the most unmistakable marker that you are now in the presence of the Almighty: Incense filled every corner as we sat, and prayed, in the Aya Trinada Greek Orthodox Church.

-

Our pace noticeable slowed as we stepped through the large, foreboding gates garnished with gilded Arabic calligraphy. Ok, do I take my shoes off now? Or should I wait. It’s Friday, should I go in yet, or will I be shooed out during prayer? I don’t know…

Then, suddenly. Keaton opened the canvas flap into the mosque. He immediately found the face he was looking for. “Hello! Merhada, Ibrahim!” The aged, mustached groundkeeper smiled wider than seemed possible. “Hudson! Hudson!” Ibrahim greeted Keaton in the traditional Turkish way, but did it as if he was seeing his grandson again. Throwing open his arms, he did the same to Peter and I.

We were given a tour of the impressive Tophane mosque. The intricate painted tiles shone in the dim lights. Medallions with massive Arabic words proudly presented the names of those holy forerunners. The only sound were the occasional mumble of prayer and Ibrahim’s proud voice explaining, in some twisted Turkish-German-English the incredible history of the building. We were then left at the back sitting in awe of the domes, arches, and friezes left by Mimar Sidan.

But all of those sensed paled in comparison to the most unmistakable marker that you are now in the presence of the Almighty: Ibrahim returned with a bottle of rose water and filled our cupped hands as we sat, and prayed in the Ali Paşa Mosque.

Pour the Concrete, and Bend the Rebar...

We pick up the story a year later...

The personal, processing online journal version of a blog seems to have gone out of fashion. So naturally, I'm starting mine back up. Walking through the events of the past few days or hours or minutes through typing is meticulously therapeutic. It's a brutal way to view your life. Even if you don't publish the harshness, the misunderstood moments, the places where you see the dark side of yourself reflected in your memory, you have to relive them when you type. It isn't "fun", but it is so virtuous. Especially in times and places where you are far from those conversations during which you would usually stare yourself in the face.

And that's why this is back online. 

It's a form of self therapy, it's a sketch pad, a drawing board, it's a way to keep people informed,  and it's a shameless attempt at maintaining some form of creativity in my everyday life. 

I'm excited to start writing again. To post a picture or two. To hear from someone an ocean away, reminding me that I use too many commas, try to reenact conversation too literally, or read too much into the little things. What can I say? It's a work in progress.

Time to start constructing...

Staring at a White, Blank Page...

Inspiration. 

It's kind of a funny word. It has such a positive connotation. It makes you think of muses, music, and melodies. Basically: Beauty.

But that's just the thing about inspiration. It never flourishes in beauty. 

Inspiration only visits the dreamer when he's having nightmares. 

The beauty only comes from the breakdown.

 The real beauty, that is.

There is something. Some deep, dark, and hollow spot buried in every human. When it's struck, when something else, some inspiration, raps on its edges, it resonates. And it echoes within those hollow spots in others. And it's that rattle and hum that we call Beauty. Even Genius.

Somehow, we've managed to place our descriptions of the most hurtful, or most longing, or most destructive, at the very apex of our Beauty hierarchy.

We're enraptured with our own self-destruction.

Perhaps that's just sin.

So what's the point of all this melancholy macabre?

Simply to say that inspiration comes when life is here, at its fullest.

Sometimes that muse drops in on the Dreamer when he is clutching the sheets. Uncomfortably strewn across his bed. Neck back, ears clenched, and deep in a cold sweat. But other times she comes when he is sound in his sleep. His eyelids flickering from the rapid movements underneath. Sometimes inspiration reveals her gorgeous and demanding face when the Dreamer is overwhelmed in the well of information that is somehow coming from his own brain. Simply put: Inspiration is unpredictable. The only method of determining when she'll strike next is to know when she won't. And that's when the Dreamer is comfortable. When he is so far in his own sleep that he doesn't even dream.

After all, glass needs either fire or lightning to be formed.

In the Layman's terms: Busyness has served me well, there's a lot to write about as soon as I have the time to jot it down.

Let It Snow...

Weather.

Sometimes you need to be reminded that you that you are too busy. You are moving too fast. Your mind is in the left lane, and you miss the cities on the right.

Is it our society that pushes us to be too busy for our own good? Is it our constant need to pressure ourselves? Do we work better under pressure? Or are we scared to slow down and face ourselves?

Sometimes you have to hit a brick wall at 75 kilometers an hour. Sometimes you have to pop the airbag, unbuckle your seatbelt, bash open the broken door, stand on your wobbly and numb legs, rub your neck, observe the carnage, and then sigh. That big, unavoidable, relieving sigh.

Weather. Who would have guessed that weather would run you into a wall and make you slow down?

And Then... Rest.

I've spent the last few days in Birmingham, England. But not really in Birmingham (explanation later). If you don't know, B'ham, as it's called on highway street-signs, is a large industrial town North-West of London. It's a big town, and it feels a lot like Chicago. My friend, and current roommate, Sam, described it as concrete. Which is pretty accurate. Not only is there a ton of the stuff around, but for some reason Birmingham just feels concrete. Some big cities can feel warm, inviting, filled with reds, burgundies, mustards, neons, and welcoming, London is definitely this way. I think that may be my favorite city in the world. There's just something about it. Birmingham, on the other hand, is blue-white, reflective, cold, rigid, rutty, and bristly. I did not quite get comfortable there.

Although, we did stumble upon a market; this very multi-cultural, cheap, almost-flea-market area. I enjoyed that quite a bit. I found a Union Jack zippo, which is perfect for my incessant need to fiddle. I just flip it around, and open, and closed, and over and over; kinda like Pyro from X2. Without the teenage angst.

But! Most of our time has not been in the city. Quite contrarily, it has been in a small Quaker community just outside of town. Woodbrooke's population is small, and its median age dropped significantly when we arrived. It's kind of like a large bed-n-breakfast. Complete with a gorgeous garden in the back, a lake with boats, an unlimited supply of hot tea, homemade meals, and rain. Lots of rain. I love the rain. But it's keeping me from taking many pictures, so there may not be a very good feel for Birmingham on here.

This place has been so needed. There's just an overwhelming sense of peace. You will slow down and reconcile yourself with your surroundings here. There is no choice, it just happens. Which is so nice. And needed. I think I'll be ready to tackle 10 more days of London after this. I'm actually really excited about going back. Also, random, I have an excellent sense of direction in the city. How bizarre.

Anyway, more important things. Like God. It's quite difficult not to recognize Him here. It's not a human sense of peace that floods you while you're here. ' Course, the professors have set up this place to promote focus on God as well. We had the Theological Philosopher John Hick come speak to us a few days ago. It was an...interesting talk. His position is one that transcends most traditional religions and finds the truth (to live for, and love God, and live a compassionate life of selflessness) of the Ultimate Reality (God) is drafted in all the actual religions of the world. As a result, one does not have to follow the Way, Truth, and Life of Jesus to reach what humans are meant to do by becoming as close to the Ultimate Reality as possible (salvation and heaven). He is brilliant, and I found myself agreeing a lot with his points. He did an excellent job pointing out inconsistencies and false pretenses among our thinking, which was needed. However, I noticed how much of the class' responses were apologetic, on-the-offensive, "this is what the Bible says...", which was quite disappointing.

I think that there is a lot to Hick's point of view. It is impossible for us to judge just who among us will end up with God after this life, God reveals His truth in ways that are catered to our own understanding (so, His love can be found in places that one might not expect it to be in), and we should recognize the incredible achievements of anyone, not matter their religion. However, after fleshing things out with one of my professors (who is a former student of Hick's), I can see where I differ from him. I still think that Jesus is the incarnation of God who died for all our sins, and should be regarded and worshipped as such. And I think that ultimately, it is up to God to decide who will be with him at the end, not for us to guess.

God is also revealing himself through his own words (hmm...imagine that). The Chaplains are reading through the book of Isaiah, which has so far been incredible. It's amazing what deep and mind-blowing truths were revealed to a relatively insignificant group of settled wanderers in ancient Palestine ;) I'm so excited to continue this practice and to continue to find God in a place that I haven't before.

Oye... I need to learn conciseness...

Trouble...

So if you know me well, you know that I am in love with music.

Seriously, I've fallen for music.

I listen to as much of it as I can as often as I can. I quote lyrics a lot (almost as much as movies), and I find so much wisdom in the way other people arrange Latin letters.

Over the last year, I was exposed to Ray LaMontagne. Do you know him? If not, you should. And I mean know him. Almost in the Biblical sense. Almost.

My RA staff introduced him to me. Our relationship started of rocky. I thought he was just another indie hippie with a gravely voice. Then his new album came out Gospel in the Grain. And I dug it. I realized that he was darn talented, and he has a great wit (Meg White is awesome). But it's taken me most of the summer to realize that he is an excellent lyricist. There are few of them out there, and Ray is definitely one of them.

So please enjoy this piece of powerful prose:

How Come

Ray LaMontagne

off of his Trouble album

People on the street now

Faces long and grim

Souls are feeling heavy

And faith is growing thin

Fears are getting stronger

You can Feel them on the rise

Hopelessness got some by the throat you can see it in their eyes

I said how come

How come

Everybody on a shoestring

Everybody in a hole

Everybody on a big jetplane

crossing their fingers and toes

Government man spin his politics till he got you pinned

Everybody trying to reach out to each other

But they don't know where to begin

I said how come

I can't tell

the free world

from living hell

I said how come

How come

all I see

is a child of god

in misery

I said how come

the pistol now as prophet

The bullet some kind of lord and king

But pain is the only promise that this so called savior is going to bring

Love can be a liar

And justice can be a thief

And freedom can be an empty cup from which everybody want to drink

I said how come

I can't tell

the free world

from living hell

I said how come

How come

all i see

is a child of god

in misery

I said how come

Its just man killing man

Killing man

Killing man

Killing man

Killing man

I don't understand

Its just man killing man