Silence and Belief

San Quattro Coronati

You walk in, and there is sound. A constant stream of water cascades into a pool below, and the slow rhythm of footfalls crunch on white gravel. It’s perhaps the most silent sort of sound you’ve heard in a long time. Slowly you are put in mind of all the other sounds of Italy, things you meant to write down but never did, things you noticed and forgot. You think of the sound of the little shops in the campo opening their graffiti-covered metal doors in the morning, swish, bang, all in succession. You think of the sound of a thousand birds that perch briefly in the trees above the cat sanctuary, calling out to each other in one great frenzied symphony. You think of the sound of a group of men arguing at the bottom of a grand marble staircase, which, by the time it reaches the top where you stand, sounds like ethereal Gregorian chanting. You think of the sound of the bells of a hundred churches tolling all at once.

San Carlino alle Quattro Fontane

You walk in, and there is light. You can see a square of luminous clouds, shining bright off of the upper walls, but the light dims as it reaches you, as if passing through a sieve. You sit in the shade and marvel at the light of the sky right above you. And again there are the memories, this time of other moments you considered the light of Italy. You think of the light of the stalls in the Campo’s Sunday market after the sun goes down, shining out from under white canvas roofs. You think of the light Bernini hides so well in his chapels, illuminating his sculptures just right with what seems to be an impossible, spiritual light. You think of the light that reflects on the river at night, making it appear black and gold instead of the murky green-brown it is in the daytime. You think of the light that comes from the inside of Caravaggio’s paintings, forcing twisted limbs and dirty hands and feet out of the blackness toward you.

Parco Savello

You walk in, and there is space. A wide square of grass and straight sandy paths between rows of orange trees lead you toward an overlook of the city. Your vision suddenly soars up and out over the city of Roma. There is so much room to move in the space above the crowded city. Spaces that moved you from the previous weeks come sifting into your memory. You think of the space of St. Peters Basilica, an enclosure so huge it boggles the mind, and all attempts to fill the void with monumental artwork completely fails to clutter the emptiness. You think of the space of the tombs of Tarquinia, so inviting and full of life in spite of being underground. You think of the space of the pantheon, perfect in its symmetry, the atmosphere being funneled up to the huge hole in the ceiling and out into the open air. You think of the space of stepping out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard outside your bedroom, where laundry hangs from the windows across the way and rooftop gardens lead your gaze to the clouds overhead.

You walk in, and there is peace. You walk in, and there is suddenly time to think. With time to think you remember all the times you found peace in your everyday wanderings. The sound, light and space of these religious spaces reinvent your perceptions. You walk in, and the walls welcome you. You walk out and the city speaks to you. You walk out, and you see the rhythm, the illumination, the gaps and bits of breathing room of the city. You walk out, and perhaps you start to notice the peace of Rome, amidst all the dirt and noise and motion. I don’t know what could be more spiritual than that.