Beginning Again

Every time my life gets too busy, both important and unimportant things slide by the way.  My writing, while unimportant in itself, ends up being a symbol or mirror of more important things.  Thus, in an attempt to focus back again on more important things, I will resume writing and posting on this blog.  Perhaps it will become more regular, but I cannot promise that it will.  Perhaps it will be more frequent than once a year, however.  I doubt that my wife will have our child, that we will find and purchase a house in two weeks, that I will begin spending two and a half hours a day in the car, or that I will undertake a significant construction project in our new house all in the same year, and within three months of each other.  At least, I surely hope not.

-Quaestor

In the Midst of Life, We are in Death

Now that Lent is already well underway, and the world has seen the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, I can't help to call to mind the words of a chant piece we used to sing at my college during Lent.  Media vita, in morte sumus: in the midst of life, we are in death.  The theme of death, however, is not a mordant one.  It is not for the sake of dwelling on death itself that one should dwell on death.  Heaven knows--as my niece enters this world, my wife and I prepare to welcome our own child, and we prepare to close the purchase of a house--that there is so much life around me, and newness, and change.  But, for some reason, this theme came to my mind recently (in the guise of John Sheppard's musical piece "Media Vita").  And, as I thought about the meaning, I once more recalled the adage from St. Robert Bellarmine, that we should "live well, so as to die."  We consider death to look beyond death.  By regarding death, we are confronted with the vision of our own mortality and transience.  If we have hope, that Hope that St. Peter said we must always have an account for, we see that beyond death is life, Life everlasting.  May we die to self this day and every day, for the sake of eternity, we may die to sin, but rise to life in Christ.

(Please excuse the video, as it's the best version of the piece I could find).

--Quaestor

The Wedding Feast at Cana

A couple of Sundays ago, the Gospel was the pericope about the Wedding at Cana.  It brought to mind the following poem from my childhood:

   
God in Man  (By Charles L. O'Donnell)

A shuttered house He occupies
Whose home is wider than the skies.
(On Tabor, all its windows lit,
Three men were blinded, seeing it).

He hid His Godhead in some sort
Successfully, by all report.
(Some jars of water, once, they say,
Rebelled and gave the truth away).



-Quaestor

French Travels Pt. 1.

Orleans, though a city with a great history, would have to wait for another visit from us, as our schedule did not permit a visit.  Our next days would involve travel from Orleans to Lyon, and no time to spare.  We left somewhat later this day, having slept in and breakfasted on bread and Nutella.  We drove to the small town of Benoit-sur-Loire, where the relics of St. Benedict are held by a sizable abbey.

Though Monte Cassino in Italy claims that they have St. Benedict's relics, they have not produced anything, and there is a strong tradition of the relics having been moved to France for safekeeping.  Anyway, we venerated the relics after the mass for the day. The mass was a strange mixture of old and new, (like much in France) with chanted propers and common parts of the mass, and random elements like the faithful placing their own host in the ciborium of clay, etc.  Odd, to say the least.  I had noticed, both at St. Benoit and Chartres, that though there was a monastic presence, it was severely curtailed in comparison to what had once been.  It was as if monastic living was withering with age and harsh exposure in the modern world.  The somewhat bizarre juxtaposition of  modern liturgical practices with Gregorian Chant only served to accentuate the diminishing of Benedictine glory.
  After St. Benoit, we drove another few hours until we reached the town of Nevers, where we prayed before the body of St. Bernadette Soubirous.  The Saint is preserved for public veneration in a shrine at the convent she had joined (the Motherhouse of  the Sisters of Charity)
partly in order to flee the publicity in Lourdes.  Her body is incorrupt,
with the slight discolorations of the skin covered over with a light wax
mask.  One can easily discern her character by regarding her coun-
tenance, one of determination and stern resolution, yet one of devotion.
   After shopping for a picnic dinner in Nevers, we continued on to our evening destination, Autun. Autun is a fascinating location, settled by the Romans, once under Moslem control before Charles Martel defeated them near Tours.  It was also the home of the military school where Napoleon studied, and learned French as a nine-year-old.  We stayed on the outskirts of town and did not go exploring due to a migraine on my part.  It did provide an opportunity for one of my favorite pictures from the trip, of the Cathédrale Saint-Lazare d'Autun at night.  Stay tuned for more.

-Quaestor

Of Quiet Men

Pat Archbold, one of the Creative Minority Report blogging brothers, has a fantastic article on quiet men.  It calls to mind the words of Proverbs about the wise man who speaks not, and the fool who prattles.  Alas that we could say otherwise of our times, but it is a time of fools.

-Quaestor

The link:  http://www.creativeminorityreport.com/2012/11/the-quiet-men.html

Where did time go?

Coming back from Europe meant we were thrust back in to our daily lives, and it would seem that they are lives without time.  At least we would seem to have insufficient amounts of it.  That missing time is right there, I'm just not good at using it well.  That means all the blog posts we had are still unfinished, and we are at Chartres!  Well, more updates are coming, I promise.  For now, enjoy a sight we saw in Europe.

-Quaestor

In Chartres

On our way up the South tower at Chartes Cathedral, we found a delightful room, which was empty and had great acoustics. So, we stopped and sang a hymn to Our Lady. Too much fun!

The audio is unaltered except to remove the loud pop when recording began an ended.  We had just climbed dozens of stairs to get there...

-Quaestor

The Grand Cathedral

We ended up in Chartres town after a hectic two hour commute there.  Of course, the address of the B&B did not show up in the GPS, so we had to guess, based on a local landmark with the same name as the street.  Thankfully, it worked, and we had established communication of a sort with our hostess.  She was the mother of five from Brittany, and her husband, who would show up later, was a Breton architect.   Meanwhile, my French was slow, and her English minimal, so it took a bit of effort to communicate.  We went off in search of dinner, buying some bread and pastries, finishing off our excellent English cheeses in the process.
  The next day, we drove to the parking lot by the Cathedral, and went to mass in the crypt.  Sadly, the sanctuary area was under repair, and we did not have mass there, and were not able to see it. After mass, we found some free parking, always a difficulty, and grabbed breakfast at the B&B.  Once that was done, we did laundry at a nearby Laverie or laundromat.  That was a surprisingly rewarding experience, mostly due to the fact that we had no clean clothes left...  While the laundry was going, we explored the lower town, and river areas.  After that, we spent a good four and more hours in the Cathedral, enjoying the majestic beauty of it and then climbing the tower to get a breath-taking view of the Cathedral and surrounding countryside.  Evening then found us on the road to Orleans, where we stayed the night.

Driving in Europe

Driving in Europe, as we have done, contains its own joys and challenges.  The challenges read as a "who's who" of nerve-wracking road conditions, and the joys consist primarily of safely reaching your destination.  Well, that's a mild exaggeration, but still, you get the point.
The first challenge we faced was that of driving on the wrong side of the road; The Irish follow English road customs which are almost the opposite of ours.  Thankfully, the Nissan Micra we had was small, and it was easier to make up for mistakes that way.  The gas, brake, and clutch pedals are all as in America, which was good, since shifting with the left hand was a bit distracting--not a good thing when driving on the opposite side of the road.  The other main feature of Irish roads is that, except for the main highways (M7, for example), they are all narrow, bumpy, and hedged by thick mounds of dirt or rock walls.  Couple this with local drivers hurtling along and giant buses and lorries (that's what they call trucks) looming out at you every so often, you have a scary ride.  We did get a flat tire, either due to bumps in the road, or more likely, severe under-inflation of the tires. Lastly, in Ireland, there are few direct roads to anywhere, so it takes forever to get from place to place, which is not a bad thing, however.  The Micra was so nondescript, we never thought to take a picture. I might link an image, though.
France had a set of challenges all its own. The signs were actually pretty easy to read, since I knew French.  Driving in Ireland had also prepared us for the placement of European signs, which are subtler and more misleading than American ones.  The tough part about France was that many, if not most of the addresses were vague.  They gave a name of a location, and the name of the road it was on (i.e., the Paris Road), but not a number or similar system. That left us driving around in the literal and metaphorical dark several times, as we actually drove past our destination several times. We got used to this, however. Leaving Paris was an exercise in patience, since we hit thick traffic and wet roads. It took us well over two hours to get to Chartres. The Parisian style of driving is to fit your car wherever there is an opening.  So, two lanes of traffic could easily morph into four, and back; depending on space, which driver was parking, calling a taxi, calling his grandmother, or just plain being French--Which way of being is rather vague like my sentence there.  Or here.  Anyway, at least everything was on the right side of the road, usually...  We named our car Gus-Gus the Panda, since it was a Fiat Panda, and a very Gus-Gus kind of car--cheerful and willing to play, but not a particularly stable character.

Italy was insane, I'll just say it now. There's a reason why the rental company would not rent without the insurance attached.  Our ride in Italy was named Ahab, since it was a whale of a car (compared to what we had before), a Citroen Picasso. Besides, Picasso was a whaley sort of person.  We did like the mileage the diesel engine gave, and the ease with which it accelerated.  Anyway, driving in Italy is like driving on the Autobahn in the fast lane, and a roller-derby in the slow lanes (Italian drivers are like Parisian drivers, everywhere in Italy).  No lie. Driving in Rome was like living the nightmares that New York cab drivers have about bad driving.  (That may or may not have been hyperbole. That's for me to know and you to find out.)  Anyway, if you have a modicum of bravery, and the ability to drive manual transmission, driving in Europe is not bad.  You can save some money over trains and planes, not to mention flexible schedules and independence. Just don't try parking on a hill in Siena. I'll tell you that one another time.
-Quaestor

There are some things money can't ... and can ... buy.

Bought at a price:

Snazzy SLR camera we've been toting around and experimenting with.

Gladys, our HTC Flyer tablet that served as wedding planner, now as carrier pigeon.

Plane tickets, rental cars, tain and bus tickets, petrol/gasoline/diesel.

Room and some board.

Bread. Cheese. Fruit. Coffee/tea. Meat when available. Nutella. More bread. More coffee. Water and/or an OJ wannabe when found for cheap.

Oh yes, and the occassional burger or decent meal.

A load of clean laundry when you're living out of a backpack.

Tickets to tour tall things. Or touristy things. Like the Cliffs of Moher. The belltowers of Bath Abby or Chartres. The museum, facade, interior, crypt and baptistry of the "duomo" (basilica) in Siena.

Because, you see, as much as one insists that one will not spend $ when abroad (and a great experience may still be had, I'm sure), sometimes it's just worth it. To stay alive and healthy, both physically and mentally.

HOWEVER,
Along with this, there are many things that are high up on the priceless list:

The look in the eyes of new parents.
(oh wait, we're not quite there yet : )

Memories. All of them. Particularly,

The views from all those lofty heights.

The laughter over the sheer quantity of those foods consumed. Or hungered after.

The satisfaction of making it through a torrential downpour in Paris without succumbing to sidewalk marketing of 7 Euro umbrellas.

The subsequent desire for said pricey umbrella as you walk to 7am mass at St. Peter's in steady rain.

Finding doppelgangers of your friends and family among the visages and voices of the European nations.

Not having to pay for something you thought you would.

People-watching.

Wondering where in the world people work when they live in the smallest "town" you'be ever seen, in the boonies of the French countryside. And envying them just a bit for it.

The look on friends faces as you arrive, having not seen them in over a year, and enjoying simply being in their company once again.

Paris en Pluie

Nous arrivons en Paris, et trouvons que il fait trop pluie....  Or something like that.  When we reached Paris, having taken the TGV from London, we locked our bags at Gare du Nord (a great way to save your back dans la Citie).  Intermittent rain followed us throughout the remainder of the day, getting steadier as night fell.  We almost broke down and got umbrellas, and in fact, should have done so.  At any rate, we stopped for dinner at a restaurant near the north side of the Basilica of Sacre Coeur.  After dinner, we splashed our way up the steps and to our room in the guesthouse.  The next day, we made the Holy Hour of adoration we had signed up for, and attended mass.  We left in search of breakfast, immediately walking into a rain that seemed to soak through everything.  As we conceded defeat and began to look for umbrellas to ward off the rain, it suddenly lifted, and the sky began to clear.  With brightened spirits, we got a quick bite to eat, and returned to the Cathedrale de Notre Dame, to take the requisite pictures, which we had skipped upon our first visit.  A half hour later, skipping the hour-long wait at Saint-Chappelle, we found ourselves on the Rue de Montparnasse, a small bit of Crepe Heaven.  Any one of the dozen places we looked into would have sufficed, but we chose, and spent a leisurely lunch hour consuming excellent crepes.  We then set out in search of the car rental location, which took about an hour of exploring to find.  Car in hand, or under-seat, rather, we returned to Gare du Nord for our bags, and left Paris.  Though our visit was brief, the city had exerted a grip on us, and refused to let us leave easily, throwing an extra hour or more of traffic at us, to keep us near.  We fought through the Paris traffic, and made our way to Chartres. 

City of the Dreaming Spires

What is there to say of Oxford? We were only able to spend a day there, hardly 24 hours, yet it was completely worth it. I will quote a passage from a favorite book, which details the story of the love of a couple, who begin as pagans and encounter Christ through the joy of other Christians. This passage is from their arrival at Oxford, where they will eventually meet and befriend C.S. Lewis:
"Imperceptibly the ages of faith, when men really believed, when the soaring spires carried their eyes and thoughts up to God, became real to us, not something in a book. What was happening was that our mind's gaze, almost without our knowing it, was being directed towards the Christian faith that, at once, animated our living contemporary friends and had brought this university with its colleges and churches and chapels into being. It was not precisely that we were being called upon to accept that faith but that we were being called upon to acknowledge its existence as an ancient and living force. There was a terrible splendour in these churches with their glorious glowing glass and in the music of the plainsong and in the words of the liturgy. The splendour of course did not mean that the faith was true; but perhaps we felt vaguely that it did somehow hint at a validity." (A Severe Mercy, by Sheldon Vanauken)
While not having the academic experience of the university, as Van and his wife had, we too felt a bit of the splendor of Oxford, even amidst somewhat inclement weather in the evening. Some cider with a friend in a local pub was a warm welcome!