A drop of Modena

Modena: 8 febbraio 2011

(Philosophy class trip to Modena, Italy)

            I walked off the “tren” from Bologna to Modena with 3.30 euro less in my wallet, but got back on the “tren” richer- wealthier in unexpected riches. 3.30euro to enter another Italian city, another jewel in the treasure box that I call Italy. Fantastico!

            Modena is home for my philosophy professoressa Caterina Zanfi, yet to me it was a land of the unknown. Without any expectations I arrived. It was like picking up a book I’ve never heard of before and reading it over the summer and returning during winter break to see the book on my book shelf and smiling as I recall “favorite” parts and fond memories of the story.

            Staring at the doors of the “Duomo di Modena” I listened to Professoressa Caterina “teachingly talk” about the Adam and Eve sculptures sculpted on the walls… At first Eve is depicted as a breast less woman, not to belittle her femininity, but to express her purity. Neither man nor woman is ashamed, as they are naked in all their human glory.  After the temptation scene Adam and Eve are hiding, leaves sprouted on their bodies to cover their “spots of shame.” Eve has blossomed breasts, her buds of shame. They are in clothing, covering cloth to cover and conceal their humanly “cowardice.” Caterina spoke of slithering snakes that were sculpted as suffocating the lions- symbolic snakes- symbolizing how power can be a suffocating privilege.

            Staring and listening…. the walls looked white to me and the doors looked wooden. The walls were indeed white and the doors were indeed wooden, not only “to me” but ‘tis fact- it is this way, even to a color-blind person.  Yet, once I looked beyond the fact of white walls and wooden doors and entered inside of Modena’s Duomo, a city I have never heard of before, a city foreign to my ears and eyes, Modena was no longer a foreigner and no longer forgotten to my mind and heart…Once I walked into the Duomo church, the murmuring of praying people, of a praying priest, prayers musically murmured on as this church’s coronating power coronated my heart with prayer and I became astounded by it’s beatitude-ing beauty.

            The numerous columns were built in brick. The walls weren’t frescoed. The pews were wooden. Passing the pews, I walked closer to the altar. Astounding altar. Six silver candles swayed their illuminating serenity. A golden gate glimmered, adorned with floral finesse. Faithful flowering. My faith was flowering. It seems ridiculous to say that a church building can make my faith grow, but in all my observations (and in my un-paying attention to Caterina’s soft voice) I let my mind wander and this time I didn’t take control of my thoughts, I didn’t tell them where to look or what to think about what they saw. I was in a city I had no idea even existed; yet I felt completely at home. The other students were way ahead of me; I stayed standing near the altar and looked up- Jesus floated above my head crucified to a cross. The conversation inside my mind…“Jesus is crucified so many times, too many times, in so many places, so many churches, and yet I think this is the first time I can recall remembering and seeing Jesus’ crucifixion this way…actually seeing him above me, I am so small underneath him, I am so small compared to his sacrifice. I see Jesus’ life story depicted on so many church walls and doors…but this is what his life resulted in…and for me, for us all.” 

            Then I go on thinking about how this church could have been, or could still be, an opera house.  It seems to me that also above my head are opera balconies with red velvet décor hanging from them. The wood, the bricks, the golden gates, the silver candles…Jesus… this house is for anyone, the rich, the poor, the wealthy, the peasants, the beggars, the king. He is our king. Yet, he is not always above us reminding us of his sacrifice. But, he is always with us.

…Modena

            As a class we entered the Duomo’s museum and I became completely bewildered of what I saw. It seemed to me as if humans centuries ago looked nothing as humans do now. There were humans with three arms, three legs, humans possessing both female and male body parts, humans in every possible flexible position…it was either a museum of yoga and its art or a museum of the karma sutra.

             There was a statue of what I thought were twins in the womb, next to each other in opposing fetal positions. The saint of the Church’s name resembled that of “Gemini” and I thought he was the patron saint of twins…I even told Lorie and Katie (twins) that he was the saint of twins. Katie bought his figurine statue. I asked about the twin statue only to be informed it was a human with a dragon.  Well was I wrong.

             I seemed to know less about Modena than I thought I knew… I didn’t even know (or really recall) who Pavarotti was, although Chelsea had showed me a song of his just days before. An extremely famous opera singer (who’s name isn’t even corrected on word’s spell check.) We passed his house, Chelsea gasped, my mind wandered. We passed his daughter on the street…Caterina whispered this to me. Pavarotti’s daughter was walking with a bambina and nibbling on a piece of bread. Caterina told me not to make a big deal about it but I raced to Chelsea to spread the word…too late, by that time she was gone and had passed the corner.

             It seems to me that the most I learned about Modena was through letting my mind wander and letting myself be intrigued by the city…and also by listening to Caterina when she wasn’t teaching, but just talking to me as we walked to our destinations. Little did I know I was walking on water… as I do in Bologna. I had no idea these cities were built above water. The church I was awed by was constructed in the 11^th century and had been bombed after the World Wars (and of course re-constructed)!

            We passed by a little vinegar shop, vinegar barrels and all in the “finestra” window… I was brought back to the memory of being a tiny restaurant in a corner of Venice with my family when I had visited Europe for the first time for my fifteenth birthday. One drop of 100-year-old vinegar on my lettuce lead salad and it was the richest tasting salad I had tasted in the fifteen years of my being.

            With just a drop of ancient Modena, like a drop of aged vinegar on my salad, I too became richer- richer with history, knowledge, and faith.