Inside Basilica Walls 

Magic of a Handel processional…

wishing I could hear it resound

in a Gothic cathedral or castle

as notes would catapult off ancient stones

echo inside my soul in lands far closer to you.

In quite a different space I sit  listening....

with angled ceiling, anchoring beams,

more glass than wall,

warmly painted in rusty tones and complimentary off –white.

Cabinets support book- filled shelves that rise to the apex

and end in thickly layered, intricate molding

a ceiling to provincial wooded floors

comforts of home…

but home is where you are.

Day dreaming, my love…

The sun can't decide if it wants to shine or hide

behind the clouds interspersed with rain....

steam rising from every conceivable surface….

my thoughts blended with this master’s classical notes…

Remembering …

there was another Handel piece in time

that welcomed me inside basilica walls…

brick of complicated design and ornate finish...

at the altar frescoes of cherubs amid castle-like spires

reaching upward to a gallery where trumpeting angels played.

It was January...Epiphany...the Feast of Lights.

Have I told you this story, dearest?

My son had just turned three and was sitting close beside me,

unhappily dressed in crisp Eton collared shirt,

and hungry as dinner would have to wait 'til after Mass.

these halls had been my childhood friend,

but he had never been before...  

and was in awe of the massive surroundings, 

the pomp and circumstance of the colorful seasonal ceremony...

high church than he had ever experienced in the simplicity

of the Vermont countryside we left behind...

all he'd ever known.

He sat quietly and saucer-eyed

as the choir and clergy processed,

incense bearers and emblemed  robes...

huge, ornate crosses born

by young acolytes in vestments red and white,

and he, a tiny matchbox car clenched in his fist.

But it was the frescoes of children that captured his eye

In the castle like structure in which they were ensconced

beyond the paramented altar and the cross

where the body and blood of Christ lay in wait

as he sat and then kneeled beside me.

And  I felt his little arms wrap tightly around my leg

while in sweet child's whisper he asked,

"Mommy, is this where Jesus lives?"

pointing to the Gothic, ivory spires

reaching ever upward toward Heaven

in the vastness of the apse

and above those playing cherubs.

"Yes, my sweet, it surely is”, with finger to my lips to hush, ...

”Shhhhh….speak in your little voice now"  

giving him a loving hug and bringing him close,

not to disturb the voices surrounding us in Epistle’s hymn. 

I could see the wheels turning in his restless mind

as he gently tugged at my Sunday dress..

his face the depiction of serious study and impish curiosity.

"But Mommy".....and I looked at him and smiled,

gave  a loving squeeze and wink,

knowing full well how difficult it was for a such little man

to suppress a wiggle on hard pews...

or whisper softly invastly  hollow, echoing halls

"But Mommy?” with another tug…

“... where does Jesus park his car?" 

With beaming smile, it was all I could do to keep my composure

with this most unexpected,

yet logical and innocent question,

covering my mouth quickly

so as not to laugh out loud mid-sermon.

....And I wondered,

my eyes looking to those angelic trumpeters

to stained glass and beyond…

barely shaking my head from sided to side,

lip edges softly curling and eyes with even broader grins…

musing as Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus and all the

children dressed as wooly-eared lambs  

wandered next down that crimson carpeted aisle.

Just how long would it be before he,

in all innocence and impishness, would ask me

to explain the concept of

Immaculate Conception.

Taylor Ryan

August 2006

© 2006 Taylor Ryan (All rights reserved)