I was sitting on one of the balconies of the Convento de Cristo, looking out over Tomar, which was shrouded in amber haze. From the ramparts of the medieval fortress—once headquarters of the Order of the Knights Templar—the entire world—or our part of it, at least—glowed frighteningly—apocalyptically, as one friend put it. As this visit to the Convento took place two years into a pandemic, and one month after the invasion of Ukraine, it was perhaps a bit apocalyptic—though apocalypse in ancient Greek means to draw back the curtain, or to reveal—and it is only the association of this word with the Book of Revelations that gives it an allusion to the end of the world. As I sat looking out over the city below, I was thinking about the astounding craftsmanship of the large castle complex. I was wondering how many hands it took to create such a place—interlocking cloisters, courtyards, kitchens, libraries and dormitories—and how many hands like mine have touched it since. I was contemplating war and peace; I was thinking about my own purpose, or lack thereof. As my hands held onto carved marble banisters while I descended treacherously narrow staircases, I wondered at the fact that nothing we build today will last as long as this—a thousand years and more—nothing, that is, but mountains and swamps of plastic detritus.
The amber veil, it turned out, was the result of a Sirocco—a south-easterly wind carrying dust from the Sahara Desert. For the three days that it obscured our view, the dogs acted strangely—pacing in panicked circles, while we humans continued on with our daily tasks—perhaps a little panicked ourselves. As we went up and down the fields; as we went to markets or the Convento de Cristo—everything glowed as it does in dystopian films and books (think Children of Men or Oryx & Crake) and one had to make the effort no to allow the extra positively charged ions in the air to slump one into an ill humor. I am already an introspective person, and weather such as this enhances that quality: what is it all about? What is it to live, versus what is it to merely exist? What is it I am doing in this life? What will be there when the veil lifts—when the curtain is drawn back? These were my thoughts as I set out hay for the horses, or gazed out over a glowing city from the wonderfully weathered marble balustrades of a castle built by human hands a millennia ago.
Even now, sites and buildings as old and lovely as this are rendered dust 4,000 kilometers away. Even now the birds return, and as the Sirocco died down, all the trees revealed bright, new leaves. As devastation, greed and hate cut down lives, trees or buildings in one place—life and creation happen in another. The Saharan veil has lifted, and while I have not discovered the meaning of life, I have planted more trees; have cooked good meals, and laughed and inspired and been inspired. The dust has settled and spring is revealed, returning as it does year after year—be the winters deep and dark with rain, or brief and warm—presaging drought. Spring is here and it is a time for building. For life.
I am wary of hero worship and demonization of the enemy. We contain multitudes—each of us is a mosaic of selves—of actions and consequences; of motives and personal philosophies. I am learning to be tactful in my distrust of political systems and political leaders—the time for polemic is over. Both Putin and Zelensky have their strengths and their crimes—there is no reason to worship or demonize either—that only plays into a system that never tells the whole story, and leaves us overly invested emotionally in situations we do not, in fact, really understand. It leads to an avoidance of nuance. Much is revealed about us collectively and individually in response to war, famine, pestilence and death—the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—the four heralds of revelation—and we are indeed living with all four of them now. Do we engage in hive mentality—in mob mentality? Do we call for brutality in the name of justice, or do we open our doors to a stranger? Open our purses and minds, and—dare I ask—our hearts? It is a time of revelations, and what is revealed to and about each of us becomes the beginning of an unknown future—and an as yet unknown future self. Another part of the mosaic. The veil is drawn back and I see spring and I sing with the birds as I contemplate bombs and disappearing glaciers. It is spring and I sing in the shadows of new leaves as I celebrate the birth of another baby or the appearance of another wildflower. I have no time for heroes and enemies as time moves quickly and there is so much to accomplish if the tomatoes, hyacinths and peppers are to bear fruit.
The dust has settled—the curtain has been drawn—and though I do not see the meaning of life, I see the power I have over my own, and the choices I make to live with a full heart—not despite the fear and uncertainty of this chaotic time—but because of it. The world has enough warriors—what we need are more healers and dreamers. More nurturers and people resolved to live from the heart, regardless what new horrors, what new challenges await. I cannot control the weather. I cannot control governments or their armies—I cannot chant MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR if I do not in fact make love, and not war.
From the fortress of ancient warriors I looked out at a shrouded world and knew that soon I would be sitting in Praça da República down below—eating, laughing and sharing stories. I knew I would drop a friend off at the train station; that I would go home to study and do chores and cook dinner. I knew that in pondering all I have shared here with you, I would come to no earth shattering revelations—and I knew that that was perfect and good, in and of itself. I have contemplated what is happening; have looked for the meaning in global events, and those happening at home; have shared those ruminations—a most human, and humanizing activity—and knew that after all that, it would be time to put my hands into the earth. It is time to join the birds in greeting spring—it is time for singing.
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Right on! Love you...