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| Kids eating their morning oatmeal wearing gloves |
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| Tucking Lucy in wearing her winter gear
The cold and the lack of sleep wore me down and I've been sick. I'm on the mend (sore throat and body aches were not fun, but now I'm just stuffy-nosed)... now Erik's got it. The cold and the sickness have really made it hard to be excited about biking around seeing sites for the last 2.5 weeks in Spain. Frankly, Erik and the kids passed their museum and church saturation point a few monuments ago, and my physical discomfort is making Stone's still-daily protest "I just can't go to school today, please Mom" that much harder to bear. I have loved Spain, I have loved this experience, but I am ready to go home.
In the mean time though, we are coaching ourselves to make the most of each day, and last night after resting all day, we went out to an incredible dinner with our now very dear friends the Martens. My favorite part was the uninterrupted conversation and the Ajo blanco (cold garlic and almond soup) - a Seville classic, but with garnishes of teeny tiny chopped chives, a drizzle of olive oil with black sesame seeds, a tiny frozen ball of barely-melting sweet red wine in the bottom, and... not described on the menu when I ordered it... POP ROCKS. I kid not. A mouthful of that delicious soup woke up even my cold-muted tastebuds, and then there were these teensy sweet explosions on my tongue, and my bowl was popping like a bowl of Rice Krispies. It is making me laugh out loud to write how absurd those ingredients sound, but it was hilariously delicious. I might have to go back to that restaurant before we leave for another bowl just to make sure I wasn't dreaming.
So this morning I took the kids to school in the cold (as mentioned) and arranged for the love of Stone's life, Carolina, to pick him up from school so I could have a few hours to see some more sites on my list. Here's what I saw and what I thought about it (note that all the captions are above the photos this time):
The Archive of the Indies: Seville's huge library containing maps and all the documents and diaries recorded by the explorers and conquistadores when they conquered the Americas. I was astounded to reflect on the land mass they found, plundered and ruled: Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Ecuador, Guatemala, Cuba, Bolivia, Honduras, Paraguay, El Salvador, Costa Rica, Panama, Equatorial Guinea, Puerto Rico, Chile, Argentina, Mexico, Dominican Republic, Nicaragua, Uruguay. For a long time, Spain was the most powerful Kingdom on Earth, and Seville its most powerful and richest city, as the boats docked here and unloaded their treasure.
  Next stop: Triana, the seat of the Inquisition in the 1400's. I wanted to see the Inquisition Museum there but it was closed so I'll try another time. Triana is across the river and is also the ceramics district of the city... I was on a hunt for those white and black letter tiles!! I found the right place but they only had one "L." Anyway, the photo below was a little street I stumbled upon as I perused ceramics shops - it's called the street of the Inquisition and you can tell by the bricks and the arch that it's very old. My guess is that this was the site of the prison where they kept the accused "heretics" before their trials. I just found out that the site where they burned the accused non-Catholics at the stake was at our bus stop, near our kids' favorite park. :(   On my way back across the bridge I was stopped by these friendly Japanese fellows. They asked, "Do you speak English?" and when I replied "yes," the asked "do you want to be on TV?" Well duh!! I guess they could tell by looking at my snowman-sweatshirt-layers, my half-blow-dried hair and my tissue-raw nose that I was made for the screen. I think this is what they call being "discovered." So they posed me leaning jauntily against the side rail saying "Welcome to Seville! It's a beautiful city!" And then I was instructed to put my hands in flat palms next to each other and trace a circle shape in the air, rejoining them at the bottom and say "ZHIEP" while smiling serenely. This took several takes ("Like, Jeep?" No, "Zip." Ok, like "Zip?" No, "Sheep." Ok, "Sheep?" No, "Jip.") but I think I got it. Watch for me on Japanese TV!  Next a joyous moment occurred: true spontaneity. I was heading back in the direction of the cathedral when I saw a street sign pointing in the direction of the Hospital de La Caridad (Charity Hospital). It's been on my list of places to see great Art, so I swiveled mid-step and headed for it! I did indeed see great Art and had a chance to do a lot of reflecting on my own Spiritual Path and on Paths that feel foreign to me, but comfortable and joyful to others. This sign reads, "No one passes by here without greeting Mary, and telling her with love, "Don't forget me, my mother." Well, who am I to disobey the Hospital rules? I had never spoken to Mary before, and never in my life considered that Mary knew me by name enough to not forget me. "Hello, Mary," I said to her spirit, which I personally believe is alive somewhere in the Universe. I do really respect what I know of her humility in the Bible - I really wish there were more verses describing her. She is so very important to Catholics, and a good friend of mine told me before I left that when she has been in Europe she feels jealous of Catholics because they get a female deity to talk to and form a relationship with. It's sometimes so lonely to be a woman in such a Male religion as all non-Catholic Christianity is. I can see my friend's point. Some Catholics here have commented on how comforting it is to tell Mary "those things that you just need to tell a woman." About child-birth, motherhood, fights with your friends, etc. It's an interesting thought.  Another recurring theme: Different artistic portrayals of religious themes, and how you're comfortable with what you grow up seeing. This image of the Resurrection does not cross Mormon eyes very often.  Nor these images. So European Catholic, and particularly Spanish. I took lots of pictures, but there is no way to capture the intricacy and the massiveness. I only captured a tiny percentage of the engulfing fanciness.  These statues are why Sophie is scared of Spanish churches. I sat and pondered for a long time on many questions: What does graphic, gory Art like this try to evoke in us? Why the dwelling on Christ's suffering? Even his elbows and knees are bleeding. As a believing Christian, I am stirred as I reflect on my belief that he descended below all human suffering and endured severe physical and emotional pain in order to full comprehend the Human experience and have limitless empathy for us, as well as to redeem us from our particular sins and our fallen state. Seeing the King of the Universe nearly naked and bleeding does remind me of that depth of humility and makes me feel grateful. But I guess my personal preference is to not dwell on that image, or rather, to not have such a high percentage of the images be so gut-wrenching. And certainly this is so hard to explain to a child! To my poor traumatized children it just looks plain scary.  I loved this one: at the top of the High Altar piece, Faith, Hope and Charity. I didn't know that Hope's symbol was an anchor, but it reminded me of the verse in the Book of Mormon, 4 Wherefore, whoso believeth in God might with asurety bhope for a better world, yea, even a place at the right hand of God, which chope cometh of dfaith, maketh an eanchor to the souls of men, which would make them sure and steadfast, always abounding in fgood works, being led to gglorify God.  Faith holds a cross, Charity is surrounded by children, and Hope holds an anchor. I love these concepts and I love that they are represented by women.  The hours and hours and hours of work that go into each part of each altar in each wall of each church in each city in each European country... it's completely overwhelming. That these artists dedicated their lives to producing Religious Art is another topic I've been thinking about.   The priest who designed this chapel said that the first virtue in life is to think constantly of death. So this painting is the one that greets you when you walk into the church (which is not my idea of a comforting image in a hospital!! Lou, can you imagine hanging this at Alta View??!!). I'll have to write another journal entry on my awareness of Death, because it's in consciousness very very often.  After finishing at the Hospital I still had 45 minutes, so I decided to stop by another church I've wanted to see, La Iglesia del Salvador (The Church of the Savior). I love statues and paintings of Joseph with young Jesus. I had never seen any until Spain, and they seem to be everywhere here. I love Joseph's belly.  These are two of the patron saints of Seville, Santa Justa and her sister Santa Ruffina, Christian martyrs. You can see they're standing by Sevilla's iconic bell tower.  Another statue that captures Christ in a posture I've never seen. I wish the photo were better quality - I was struck by how lifelike the creases in his stomach skin were. I am not accustomed to seeing Jesus in moments like this, and at first I feel uncomfortable, but then I think "what is the artist trying to show me?" and I see his skinned knees again and the face resting exhausted on the hand, and while I still wouldn't choose to put the statue in my local church building, it does help me remember that there is no loneliness and no suffering that he wouldn't understand.  The ornateness is once again overwhelming. I respect and appreciate the Art, and I appreciate the dedication of money, time and resources that went into creating these spaces for the glory of God. I do have to wonder though if the scale tipped at some point toward the glory of the Artist. I personally feel God's presence more easily in simple Nature - the Rocky Mountains, the rugged Northern California coastline, the Costa Rica rainforest. I think of the humility and simplicity of the real Jesus and I think this style is not for me.    I do like this one though - again, the human moments are what touches me  In this one the ceiling painting is visible  Why the severed heads? I need to ask Spanish Catholic friends how the violence affects them. I need to ask my American Catholic friends to confirm my perception that this fascination with gore is a Spanish thing and not an American Catholic thing. Or if not, I want them to help me understand its purpose and its effect on their psyches. 
To close, here is a poem I love by a poet I just discovered, Tracy K. Smith (recent winner of the Pulitzer Prize). I have read it over and over and over again and I admire it more every time.
Cathedral Kitsch
Does God love gold?
Does he shine back
At Himself from walls
Like these, leafed
In the earths' softest wealth?
Women light candles,
Pray into their fistful of beads.
Cameras spit human light
Into the vast holy dark,
And what glistens back
Is high up and cold. I feel
Man here. The same wish
That named the planets.
Man with his shoes and tools,
His insistence to prove we exist
Just like God, in the large
And the small, the great
And the frayed. In the chords
That rise from the tall brass pipes,
And the chorus of crushed cans
Someone drags over cobbles
In the secular street.
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