26 May Being Unprepared
I was not prepared. I thought, that when I signed on to take a trip that would drop me halfway around the world, that I was prepared for what I would find there. I did all my research. I looked up the places where we were staying and the museums that our (soon to be tired) group would be parading ourselves through. I told my family and friends about all of the amazing things that would be happening to me once I made it to this place that I had only ever dreamed about. I packed my bags light, dropped the cat off at my mom’s, made sure I had sleeping pills for the plane, and was on my way. I was prepared. Except that I wasn’t.
The language is not a big issue for me. Granted, it’s not like I’m fluent but I can finangle my way around well enough. Most vendors seem to understand what I’m trying to say with a lot a pointing and smiling. No, I was fairly prepared for dealing with not understanding everything. After all, I was told to come ready to be flexible. I was also prepared not to sleep. I knew that the days would be long and the tours would be amazing, which would naturally make up for all of my exhaustedness. No, I was none of these that I was vastly unprepared for. It was smply the act of sight.
I realized that may be a little confusing. “She doesn’t even wear glasses, how coud she have sight problems?” Let me assure you right now, I have 20/20 vision. What I’m talking about not being prepared for is a different kind of sight. It was the kind of sight where you could literally see into the past. Where you could feel the presence of a crowd or hear the master hammering ever so lightly on his masterpiece.
What I’m talking about is the whole body, heart racing, tear-jerking reaction that came over me when I walked into the Sistine Chapel for the first time (and I am not religious). When I glanced at David from down the hall and had to jerk my head back around to keep from getting overwhelmed. When I see the Duomo come around the corner, stoic and silent and strong and beautiful. When I gaze up at the Baptistry doors and marvel that, at one time, these things were made by a man’s hands, not a man’s hands controlling a machine. These things, though I knew that they would be beautiful, overcame me.
I will freely admit that I don’t “get” the art of our world today. But these things…these hand-crafted, frustrating, gorgeous, overwhelming, loved and loving, out-of-my-mind ubelieveable pieces… Well, these I get.
