Snow

I am watching snow fall silently upon the streets of Istanbul. The Silence of Snow… Thanks for giving that meaning, Pamuk. My typing is the only thing that can be heard apart from the occasional Turkish murmuring. You see, the snow and heavy rain has cut the power in this little café. The refrigerator, the kahve grinder, the oven – it’s all off. Powerless. Silent. These snowflakes are the biggest I’ve ever seen. They fall hard and fast, but their impact is totally unseen among the much more present rain.

The dance of this storm is quite like listening to a symphony. It will increase in speed and size; snowing hard and quick. Then, suddenly, it will slow to almost a strolling pace. Just a slight reminder of the bitter cold above.

The Bosporus is totally indistinguishable from the clouds and fog. And Asia is completely invisible. It is over there. On the other side of that bridge in the distance, that now looks like it ends midway over the water. Only a few miles from the other continent, and yet it feels as far away as if I were back in North America.

Without making a sound, the snow has separated continents, tamed the busyness of the city, and muzzled the bustling noises of 18 million as they stand and watch.

How can one not love the snow?

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.

Tabula Rasa...

Well. 

One week ago I stated to be lost and enraptured in a sense of Wonder. I'm not sure I was aware of how I would be completely unable to be in any other way! 

 The past week has been spent prepping for the students to come for their semester. After all, this is THEIR semester, not mine. You see, I thought that I knew Istanbul kinda-well. Like I had some bearing on what it was like. Perhaps I was 50% integrated into what this city was like. 

Try 10%. Maybe. 

 My first encounter was to wander - just a bit - to try to get my bearings a little on my first morning. Not only was I completely wrong on where I thought I was, I had no clue at all as to where I was or where I would be going. Combine that with the fact that I had 0 internet access in my flat, and I was very thankful that the other leaders were coming to find ME, and not the other way around.
 After breakfast and some walking, something hit me. I had seen absolutely nothing of what we were experiencing on that walk. When I was here last, I had spent the entire week on the other side of the Golden Horn (in Sultanahmet for you Istanbullions). I was in completely uncharted territory. Sweet :) So, being three steps behind where I thought I was; it became clear that it was time to follow, and not try to lead at'all. This was wise. For some reason, I can get around European/Middle Eastern cities with no problem once I can map them out a bit - completely contrary to American urban centers. 

After about three days of relying totally on a map and others to guide me through the 20 minute walk from my flat to the rest of the group, I think that I've got it down. I think. 

 This week was filled with meetings. The language institute we're using. The university where we will be staying. The many wonderful people already here supporting our crazy little idea. Basically days were: 

 -Walk the city. Get bearings. Revel at street art. 

-Meeting for breakfast - dicuss plans, current state of our idea, current state of Turkey - drink Turkish tea.

-Walk. Get bearings. Ride form of public transport. Marvel at the how gorgeous and new every bus/tram/metro is. 

-Meeting for lunch - dicuss ideas, talk about current state of things - drink Turkish tea 

-Walk. Remember that this city is actually built on hills and makes SFO look flat. 

-Afternoon break - spent recapping at a café - drink Turkish tea 

-Walk. See the lights turn on. Try to figure out how to get places in the dark. 

-Meet for dinner - discuss at length where we are in plans, recap ideas - drink Turkish tea 

-Walk home. Pace self to not look like a tourist. Think about maybe brewing a cup of tea. 

 Last night was nearly inexplicable. I thought I was over the butterflies after I got here. The whole ride to the airport to pick up the students I was giddy.

'Seriously. This is it. It all starts now. You've prepped for a whole year for this.'

How incredible it was to see them all come through the arrivals door - with every one of the bags to boot. Now THAT'S a miracle. Bringing students to their flats was just as incredible. I was filled with joy when they opened the door and were dumbfounded at how sweet these apartments are. There was nothing like standing on the roof and looking out at the Bosphorus with the 7 names you've read too many times, prayed for over and over, and graded the papers of. That is something special. 

 Finally - and more philosophically - something truly divine happened today. Dana and I have been preparing a scavenger hunt for the students to do for today (they are all currently out in Istanbul. Wide-eyed, I'm sure). We had a time for breakfast and were all talking about the night. We were keen to see how many of them would be wrecked by jetlag. Thankfully, they all said the same thing:

"I slept great! Didn't wake up till my alarm at 9! In fact, did anyone hear the call to prayer this morning? No? Huh, I wonder what it sounds like..."

 As we were commissioning them and getting into our introduction for the semester, we took some time to pray. Out loud, the group spent about twenty minutes. It was beautiful - students and leaders alike, lifting little thoughts, concerns, and mostly praises up to the keeper of these good words. Then, suddenly, through our relative quiet, came the echoing sound of the Adhan. This gorgeous reminder that we were not alone in our prayers electrified the room. The feeling of awe from the students was palpable - even when the room had its collective head bowed. 

 It was, in a word: Mükemmel.

Wandering Wonder...?

When I traveled to Europe two years ago, my wanderlust infected self reflected. Often. 

One of the beautiful outcomes of this reflection was a need to redefine some of the more commonly reference virtues and emotions. I was wary that this practice was a one-off, but as I sat to journal for the first time in 2012, on my flight across the Atlantic, it happened again.

 Wonderful.

 

"I almost feel as though my excitement has hit a wall. You can only maintain a future-oriented emotion for so long. It seems that anxiousness, nervousness, and excitement have expiration dates - or perhaps Fill To lines? Either way, I'm hoping that every emotion runs anew upon landing in London... 

 Wonder. Now that's a future-oriented emotion. But it never runs out. 

Some people just lose wonder. Forget what it is - how it feels coarsing through your blood. Most, however, always send something of "wonder". Maybe the reason it can be sustained is due to the fact that wonder is not focused on the self. 

 Wonder, awe, marvel - these are all selfless emotions. They turn the gaze of the subject to an outside object. Nervousness, anxiety, excitement, on the other hand, are all intraspective. They may regard or incorporate other objects, but the focal point is on he self, and how the self experiences or acts. 

 How much more beautiful is wonder? It is Marvelous, Awesome, Wonderful. There it is then. That's it. A pledge: To live this trip inundated, insulated, and inebriated with a sense of wonder."

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...

These Paperbacks, They Know Their Age...

Last night I stumbled upon a copy of Samuel Goodrich's

History of All Nations

A two-volume encyclopedia of the entire history of the entire world. And it was published in 1852.

I would have snatched those books up in a heartbeat if it weren't for the price. But that didn't stop me from snapping a few pictures of some of the best parts.

Obviously, my heritage was  paramount. And Mr. Goodrich, being a good Briton, did not disappoint:

"The Irish distill whiskey from a barley in their own cottages, where they elude the vigilance of  the local officers. What is thus illegally made is called potchen. This liquor was first known in Ireland by the name of usquebaugh (translates to: water or life). The use of it has been carried to great excess among the lower orders, who delight in all kinds of meetings which give them an opportunity of drinking together. To this propensity perhaps may be traced the custom of  waking the dead. Whenever a poor person dies, the neighbors assemble to drink, smoke, and lament the departure of the deceased. This is a very ancient custom, and is regarded so indispensable , that a laborer whose relative has died, and whose children are running about half naked, will spend a month's wages in whiskey and tobacco for the men and women who come to the wake, which is often continued for two or three days, and nights. The intemperance of the Irish has, however, been somewhat checked by the exertions of Father Matthew."

Of course, there is another famous Irish pastime:

"They are generally destitute of that sober and steady spirit of enterprise which distinguishes the English. The love of combat seems to be a general infirmary. The Irish do not fight single-handed, but in bands, and on a great scale. When an individual imagines himself insulted, he goes round to his companions, friends, and townsmen, and collects a multitude, who make a joint attack on the offending party. This is their practice also in America. The light frailties of the Irish are vanity, loquacity, a readiness to speak as well as to act without deliberation, and a hurry and confusion of ideas which so often lead them to that particular sort of blunder called a bull."

And of course, in all my jolliness, I had to find something that almost brought a tear to my eye due to its sadness:

Gaza - Lying on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean, and at the southern extremity of Palestine, Gaza belonged to the Philistines, then to the Hebrews, then covered its liberties in the reigns of Jotham and [illegible], and was reconquered by Hezekiah. It was then subjected to the Chaldeans, who conquered Syria and Phonecia. They were masters of it when Alexander besieged, took, and destroyed it. Strabo says that "he rendered it a desert." He at least dismantled it. and another city, rose from its ruins, nearer to the sea.

It has since undergone many changes. The town stands three miles from the sea, and has an indefinite port. Its population is fifteen to sixteen thousand, and is engaged in part in the manufacture of cotton. Its position as a frontier town, the key of Palestine, serves its importance, and it is now the most populous of the cities of Palestine. A considerable number of Christians live here by themselves, in a particular part of the place. As Gaza stands on an eminence, it is considered picturesque by the number of fine minarets and spires, which rise majestically above the buildings."

Oh, the changes of 160 years...

'Meri-cuh.

So if I dislike this with the entirety of both my religious and political selves, does that make me a bad Christian, or a bad American?

http://bosscreations.net/index.php/trees/new-the-christian-nation-christ-mas-tree.html

Oooh... I think it makes me gay, cause I'm definitely supposed to thoroughly enjoy this picture:

http://bosscreations.net/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/m/a/marsha_walter_reed.jpg

Ah yes, nothing says Christian Nation like a scantily clad, seductively posing, temptress. 

Here's a gem from the About Us section:

Also, the history of our country is being rewritten to exclude it’s Christian heritage, our leaders are distancing themselves from Christianity, stating that we are NOT a Christian nation but we ARE one of the largest Muslim population countries in the world!? This has all led to a hostile environment toward Christians making it increasingly difficult for Christians to live in America without prejudice and without being persecuted for our beliefs.  Our laws and government are ever increasingly becoming “Godless” as well.  This is all having an alarming affect on the direction of the country.  America is moving away from Christianity and toward communism, which is rooted in an atheist worldview/religion.

Fear. Fear all ye patriotic protestants. 

There is so much I want to say, but really, Steven Colbert just says it a lot better:

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/368380/december-13-2010/blitzkrieg-on-grinchitude---gretchen-carlson---christian-nation-christ-mas-tree