This weekend we organized an afternoon trip to Montmartre, a neighborhood of Paris known for its religious origins, cabaret past, and tourist-trap present. Sacre-Coeur Basilica, the glorious white cathedral that sits atop the highest point in Paris, commanding a breath-taking view of the entire city (remind me to go back up there after dark for the lights), is a gleaming testament to the strength of the Catholic devout as it still exists today.
According to my trusty Rick Steves guidebook, the cathedral was built just one century ago by rich Parisians who, during the siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian War, believed that the suffering they had to endure was in fact a form of punishment for crimes committed before and during the war. The act of building the church was, thus, a form of penitence for the French catholics for their sins and those of their fellow Frenchmen. There is some political intrigue to the actual plot of the construction of Sacre-Coeur as well, but for want of keeping evidence of my political history ignorance to a minimum, I will gloss over that part of the story and say only that Wikipedia is, IMO, a great website.
Anyways, the point of my story: during our visit to Montmartre on Saturday, we left the viewing of the cathedral for last in order to avoid the huge tourist crowds. Unfortunately, this meant that I was only able to take in the greatest of the church for about 5 minutes before I was ushered out the door for dinner. But in those 5 minutes, I felt I had found something entirely different from any other cathedral I had visited - even Notre Dame and (is she really going to say it?) St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican City (yes, I said it). At the time, I had no idea what it was, but I knew I had to come back to bien apprecier this magnificent structure.
So that is how this morning, at 11am, after a breakfast of toast and hot chocolate, I found myself sitting in one of the pews of Sacre-Coeur Basilica, staring up at the wondrously decorated domed ceiling and marveling at the stories of Joan of Arc and other saints depicted in the stained-glass vitraux.
It was at this moment that it hit me - the emotion coursing through me was not appreciation, but sheer wonder. Wonder that this huge, gleaming white imposing stone basilica, that must have cost millions (or billions? I'm not so good with big numbers) of ______ (insert preferred currency name here), could have been built just 100 years ago. That less than one century ago (it was finished in 1912), people, like me, albeit much more wealthy than I am, could have felt so moved by their faith that they would commit millions to the construction of a cathedral. A real, live, cathedral. Tons of stone and plaster, thousands upon thousands of man-hours poured into the decoration of every wall, every window, every column. Not to mention the incredible domed ceiling depicting Jesus' sacred heart, the holy trinity, and numerous worshipers offering the world and this church to their god. (Interestingly enough, these worshipers included a lady in a kimono, a man in a business suit, a Native American-looking figure, and St. Bernard with his namesake dog - another testament to the youth of this basilica, I suppose.)*
My sense of wonder for the church began to extend to the realm of the writing of history: it amazed me that the erection of this church, resounding in its sheer size and beauty, was in fact the writing of history here and now (give or take a century or so), a real physical mark upon the history of the world. That hundreds of years from now, visitors would still tour this church as I did, but they would feel distanced from it by time, as I had when I went to Notre Dame and St. Peter's, where I felt so intimately the weight of such an undertaking when it had occurred just 100 years ago, nearly in living memory.
I think it was this revelation that moved me that most. The idea that a few people, commoners (read: non-royalty) like me, could make that kind of lasting mark on the world, made me wonder then what my calling is. For if others could have a passion so huge that they could put in millions to build a cathedral, or, to take it one step further, to dedicate their entire lives to their faith, why was it that I, now 20, still had no idea why I existed.
The beauty of such a church could turn anyone faithful. I looked at it and asked myself, am I missing something? What was it that others felt that could prompt them to build such a monument that was, in essence, a manifestation of something within them, because for all the ceremony and tradition, is not what binds a religion together just the shared inner feeling of faith in a common force?
Regardless, I was astounded that others could have something so large and powerful within themselves, that they might go weekly to explore that feeling within them, and devote millions to the cause of helping others find the same inner feeling. For never have I believed in something that large within myself. Never have I felt that calling, that cause for my devotion, that passion that calls me to devote all of myself to something outside of myself.
At that moment, my sense of wonder turned inward, or rather returned inward, to my continuous search for my passion, my life-force, my calling. Questions and insecurities about my accomplishments and my capabilities, resurfacing as they have been for the past couple months. After discussing these thoughts with a couple close friends, I decided before I left for Paris that this month abroad would be a time for my self-reflection and hopefully, personal and emotional growth. With this first encounter with my demons (or lack of) within, I hope will come more chances for self-exploration and ultimately, discovery. Because, I suppose like every other young person out there, I am impatient with life, and I just want to know already! (sulk sulk sulk) But I guess growing up wouldn't be growing up without well, growing pains.
I have so much more to tell you about my adventures last week in Paris - all my new friends and all the new sites, especially the amazing art history I am learning and of course, the MAGNIFICENT food I am eating. But alas, it's late and I have "History of Paris Through its Monuments" tomorrow morning at 9am (yes, its an awesome class and yes, its basically all field trips). So, I will leave the rest for tomorrow. I promise I will write again, for all you die-hard Joycerine fans (yeah right, I know), but for now, bon nuit and au revoir.
*I took the following photo from the interweb, courtesy of Google. Photos aren't allowed inside the church, but I wanted to give you all a sense of what I was going on yammering about. Thank you for understanding.
The intersection near my host family's home. Our street is rue de Clichy.
