I can hear the bells*

Each church we entered, I anointed myself and lit a candle.

It was in deference to many things—out of habit of the ritual, out of respect to my mother and her beliefs, and out of deference for entering a place in order to interact with it contrary to its purpose, as a spectator and secular observer.

Nonetheless, the ritual was familiar and I even managed a ‘hail mary’—it seemed the least I could do.

As with so many other places in Paris, when you find yourself up against one of the most significant spectacles in the western world and one of the greatest cathedrals in Europe, you try to find something to ground you—for me I feel grounded when I can spot the flaws and absurdities. Just like Dorothy, I follow my dog and look for the man behind the curtain. Not that I think there is anyone particular individual responsible for the madness that flocks around Notre Dame, though undoubtedly there is someone benefitting from the gains of the gift shop.

No matter how strange it felt to shuffle past those seated for prayer in Notre Dame, it didn’t feel like nearly as great of an intrusion as it did as the some of the smaller churches we visited. There was no longer the din of the crowd to cover the sound of our footsteps and the clack of our shutters; though we may have not been the only visitors, our presence was undeniable. I thought a bit about the church I attended when I was growing up, modest with its wood pews and abstracted stain glass, architecture diluted and muted for the practicality of a working class town. Though the churches were free and open to the public, it seemed contrary to enter a space as if it were a platform for investigation while it was still being used as a place of worship and prayer. But yet, I went in and marveled at the architecture and construction, in deference to the engineering achievements and visions of man.

 

Perhaps the guilt is ritual as well.









*cause life isn't complete without musical references