“Uncle Mehmet isn’t here…”

You look at any one of these earth-forms

…and they could be peopled still.

The soft tufa – volcanic ash mixed with sandstone – makes it possible.

In Cappadocia, early Christians carved vast underground cities out of it -- where they could hide for months at a time from Roman soldiers.

Centuries later, they hid again from Arab invaders.

Here at Keşlik Manestir the tufa mounds seem both to congregate and to be on the move at once, as if each of them still has something it wants to say,

…which may be true since manestir means monastery in Turkish. And Keşlik is thought to be one of the oldest monasteries in Cappadocia, which means it was one of the oldest monasteries anywhere.

Each apparently blank form could be…

…someone’s interior castle

…or the church itself

…carved out of tufa

…and winding in tunnels

…through one story after another of good earth

…until perhaps it disappears entirely underground

…only to connect with all the others in ways we can no longer perceive.

And you begin to suspect that there’s no end to the subterranean passageways that connect all of us in some vast lost time we don’t understand either.

Sometimes the signs are virtually effaced, and human art melds easily back into earth’s forms and colors again.

Sometimes a human hand has painted a chapel with wild and archaic forms.

And sometimes it seems as if the Byzantine fresco painter just walked out yesterday and left the pigments to dry on the wall behind him.

The landscape helps decide what should be preserved – and for how long and in what form.

But it is also true that Turkey’s population is approximately 98% Muslim now,

…and there hasn’t been a Byzantine monk living in any of these caves in more than 700 years.

And yet their presence is still so strong that our friend Torrey says he became a Christian because of them.

So what else should we do, but look for these monks ourselves?

We stopped to ask a farmer for directions to Pancarlik Manestir. He wouldn’t tell us.

Instead, he packed up the dried apricots and mulberries in the back of his truck and came to show us.

This kept happening. At each turn we’d make a new friend, like Pinar in Göreme

…and Unal who drove us to the most hidden monasteries he knew.

Angels would make themselves visible on city streets if that’s what it took to show us where to go next.

But when we had arrived at Pancarlik Manestir, there was no one to open the chapel for us. It wasn’t yet the season for visitors.

But still the tufa was swept,

…and there were flowers and candles on the altar inside.

So each of us wandered off on our own to imagine a community of monks and caves and stone. It was easy to do since the place was so well kept.

We met a guide walking along the sandy road.

“Who’s the man who keeps care of the monastery?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s Uncle Mehmet…”

“He must be a good man.”

“He’s a very good man,” the guide said. “I’m going now to buy some tea and sugar to give to him. He always makes tea for his visitors.”

“Would you buy Mehmet some tea for us?” we asked.

“Of course.”
From Cappadocia, we made a long bus ride to Konya, the home of Rumi.

The woman in front of us was reading the Qur'an.

She was also reading perfect English.

Konya is a big and conservative city. Hülya took us by the hand, led us from the bus to tram, bought our tickets, and took us downtown.

We went to her mosque, where she prayed, and we did, too. Then she walked us to our hotel and gave us her phone number and asked us to call her if we needed anything.

It’s true that we couldn’t find a beer or glass of wine in Konya.

It’s also true that each person we met was kind and generous with us.

Conservative, we learned again, isn’t a synonym for extremist or fundamentalist. In Konya, it seems to mean something closer to faithful instead.

But we couldn’t find Rumi either -- moved as we were to pay our respects at his tomb.

“You won’t find me here,” he said.

“What dome could you build for me that would be better than the open sky?”

“My grave will be in the hearts of the wise.”

His Friend, Shams of Tabriz, went even further.

“I will go somewhere where words will never find me,” Shams said.

When we visited Shams’ turban...

...a couple of people were praying quietly in the small mosque.

But as we started to leave, four men were coming in. The man who takes care of the mosque smiled and nudged us back inside. And just then, one clear voice rose into the air in a long beautiful stream of praise and poetry and prayer and song.

The voice must have spilled outside because soon women began following it inside and crooning in a low undertone of prayer themselves.

The Sufis are here, the Sufis are here! they must have been saying.

Afterwards the Sufis told us, “We aren’t from here,” as they gestured to the city streets all around us. “Do you understand?”

They were from Bosnia. But that’s not what they meant. They meant they weren’t from this realm of commotion and inner noise.

They wanted us to come with them to their "Sufi place" at Menzil.

“We want to push you into the ocean,” they said.

But we had a bus to catch. You can’t say yes to everything.

So we bowed and shook hands and touched our hearts and went our separate ways.

"We'll fall into the ocean anyway," we said.

Later, on our plane back to Istanbul, we were sitting among a group of thirty, mostly women, buzzing with excitement at beginning their pilgrimage to Mecca.

We laughed and gestured and touched our hearts many times with them, too.

“We’ll pray for you,” they said. “Please pray for us, too.”

They had already given each of us their prayer beads.

In Cappadocia the 4c was the century of three saints: St. Basil the Great, his brother St. Gregory of Nyssa, and their friend, St. Gregory of Naziaranus.

Had we met Uncle Mehmet, he probably wouldn’t have parsed their mystical theology for us.

But we hadn’t come for that anyway.

We had come here for the tea he served.

Maria Simonds-Gooding

Why do you turn this way and that, love,

…north, south, east

…and west of west, further than the eye can see?

“It isn’t given us to see the soul,” Rumi says.

And so she lays out a golden thread before us, which we can follow or ignore.

But what is it about these islands -- off every western shore?

“We have a plane to catch tonight,” we said. “We don’t have time for any more of this. You’ll have to beckon to someone else instead.”

And anyway, no one lives here any more.

Certainly not on Sceilig Mhichíl where Celtic monks once built stone cells out of a stone island.

Nor on the Blaskets, off the Dingle peninsula, a refugia for an oral literature once so rich that late in life Tomás O’Crohan was persuaded to learn to read and write so that more of us could have his stories.

His sole purpose in writing, he said, was “to set down the character of the people about me so that some record of us might live after us, for the like of us will never be again.”

Is that what we’re straining for – some curraich that could carry us back there?

“Well, what if we just go for a little drive?”

“There were those engravings we saw in Dingle…”

“But we don’t even know who the artist is.”

“Nor if he or she even lives in Ireland, let alone near here.”

“I love this one.”

“’Going into the island’ is what it’s called? What could that mean?”

We leaned into the west

…as long as there was any light at all.

But still it wanted to show us more.

And then in the winter-hail, on the headland, one small light came on.

It was Ionad an Bhlascaoid MhóirBlasket, the Blasket Heritage Center – but it was closed for the winter, too.

“Come on, let’s snoop around a bit,” we said.

And when we knocked on one of the doors, Micheál de Mordha appeared, the director of the center. He was working on a paper late at night, and on his walls were engravings like those we had seen in Dingle.

“Oh, that’s Maria Simonds-Gooding,” he told us. “She lives up this road.”

And so we knocked on her door, too.

And beneath a vault of shining stars, Maria invited us into her cottage and led us through it

…until it opened up into the studio she has built.

And, oh, the work…

We had walked into the middle of new work in a new medium.

Maria has discovered big surfaces of aluminum which she etches and inscribes and roughly brushes and polishes until forms and textures change with each movement of your eye.

“I’m a halfway house between a sculptor and a painter,” Maria says.

And we talked about our pilgrimage as well.

Maria encouraged us to go to Cappadocia, where we’ve just been

…and to Ephesus

…and to St. Catherine’s Monastery at Mount Sinai, where we are now. Maria has a special love for this place, too.

You can see how there’s stone and solitude in all of this.

“I have to go right to the place itself,” Maria says.

“Give yourself the time for anything to happen,” Maria also told us.

And we’ve been following her advice ever since.

“Didn’t we feel like friends as soon as she opened her door?” we asked ourselves afterwards.

In Athanasius’ life of St. Antony of the Desert, he speaks of Antony’s inner mountain,

…the way that Blasket islanders speak of “going into the island.”

Maria has been there many times herself and has known well the last residents of these islands.

And if in the heart of winter you can’t find a pilot for a curraich to carry you across these waters,

Maria’s work can help to take you there as well.

Sailing to Byzantium

What lost city from a vanished time shall we search for?

A caravansary along the Silk Road...or an Assyrian trading colony

...or perhaps the oldest city of them all, still buried somewhere between the Tigris and Euphrates?

Or perhaps like Yeats we should wish that “Once out of nature…” we might never again take “bodily form from any natural thing,”

…but instead be “gathered into the artifice of eternity” and sail off for Byzantium.

Or “perne in a gyre”

…we could enter the Blue Mosque.

Or isn’t teeming Istanbul quite enough, straddling the Bosphorus, one foot in Europe, and the rest of the body leaning towards Asia?

Does one image or culture always have to try to efface another

…or can they sometimes exist side-by-side

…even if you have to call Hagia Sophia a museum to brook the argument about what cross-cut of time – basilica or mosque – should identify it now?

Or perhaps we should be looking for a city in and out of time.

From here, the energy is all facing east anyway, towards the apse

…and towards Mecca all at once

…and so towards the rising sun.

And if you’re like me, you can only raise your eyes intermittently to meet a gaze like this,

…but each time you do, you learn another aspect of yourself.

“Humankind cannot bear very much reality,” T.S. Eliot says -- and so sometimes we even efface the eyes.

But enough of this. We’ll make another start.

We’ll get a haircut and a shave

…and ritually cleanse ourselves

…and then lay back and wait to see what happens next.

Don’t worry.

We’re already being led.

And if it’s not leading us to really do something for our neighbor, let’s turn off the news of economic blues awhile.

Let’s open our hearts and homes instead.

Wasn’t it decades of self-serving that brought us to this pass anyway?

“Move outside the tangle of fear-thinking,” Rumi says.

Let’s look for him instead.

Let a local potter

…help you turn the clay of yourself

…into a beautiful new shape.

The only requirement is that you center it.

And you already have that native skill.

“There is a community of the spirit,” Rumi also says.

“Join it, and feel the delight…”

So let’s find the cave of our own heart

…and make sure it’s big enough for all.

La Vierge Noir

She is the Queen of the Heavens. Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles back home in California,

…as blue and celestial

…as the sky itself.

No wonder that the spires of cathedrals dedicated to her, like Notre-Dame de Chartres, seem to reach upward almost without any gravity at all.

She is dark and watery and seems to emanate from the very ground

…like the springs in a hidden cavern, where she is often found.

In fact, she is most often found just where pre-Christian mother or earth goddesses have been as well -- like Isis, or Artemis in Ephesus, or Tonantzin on the hilltop of Tepeyac, which was re-named Guadalupe after la Virgen appeared there and spoke to Cuauhtlatoahtzin in Nahuatl with as much courtesy as if he were a prince.

She is as mysterious and powerful and necessary as our own shadow.

“There are actually two churches at Chartres,” guide Malcolm Miller says, “the one you see above ground…”

“…and the other church is the crypt.”

That is, there is the Queen of Heaven

And Notre-Dame Sous Terre. Our Lady of the Underworld…or Underground.

And there is also a second vierge noir at Chartres.

Notre-Dame de Pilar.

Debi: “I have spent a lot of time with Our Lady of Częstochowa.

“In fact, there is an image of her back home on our living room wall.

“To me, she represents the fullness of the Black Madonna. Iconographers have tried to paint over the sword slash that an invading soldier made, but the scar always reappears...because she won’t remove herself from our own suffering.

"She comes from the depths to meet us with unconditional love.”

Chris: “I’ve been to Częstochowa twice before, but in the summer when the church was packed, and I was pressed far back at the doorway.

“But now we were here in the spare dead-cold of winter -- and you could feel the devotion of the people who have come to pray here all around you .
“And you can see the signs of those who have been healed.”

D: “Usually she's dressed so ornately. But imagine her without the brocaded garments and jeweled crown. You can understand her humility better then."

“I see why both men and women place flowers, kiss the pedestal she stands on, and reach up to touch her feet. Children sometimes come to sing to her.”

C: “Say more about why you don’t like it when she’s robed.”

(This is Notre-Dame du Puy en Velay above.)

D: “If you look at Notre-Dame de Rocamadour, there is the sense of her emerging from the underworld—from a mysterious incubation state. For me, the dressings interfere with her essential nature.

“If only I could be as natural as her!”

“In the chapel at Rocamadour, they have refrained from dressing her in a robe. A woman told us that townspeople saw how the added garments didn't fit her, and they insisted they be removed.

“Isn’t this simplicity a reason why she’s so particularly beloved?”

(Sculptures of the Black Madonna are often very old, and even then, often they are re-fashioned from images even older. For example, Notre-Dame de Rocamadour dates from the 12c, but she’s been venerated from at least the 5c – and who knows how long before that? A cave just a kilometer or two away has cave-paintings that have been dated to 25,000 to 30,000 years ago.)

C: “I always dislike all the human accretions. Once Notre-Dame de Rocamadour stood on a plinth on the bare rock of a cave. Then the vault of the cave collapsed, and the current shrine was built.

“But in winter you can still find enough time alone here -- in this grotto with a spring far up a sheer cliff-wall."

"And centuries of pilgrimage and tourism haven't changed her.”

D: “Isn’t this a similar attraction we feel for romanesque churches like Sant-Antimo?

...where the natural world

...coexists with the spirit world

...in art?"

C: “She is like our shadow – all the dark, earthy places in ourselves we fear and which our high ethereal spiritualities even try to destroy.”

D: “...while she keeps her own austerity, which invites us to meet her heart-to-heart—if we dare.

“Listen. There's still water dripping in a corner of the chapel. Can you hear it?

"I’m sure Our Lady still feels a quite at home.”