I like to give gifts. I’m a gift-giver. You know, one of those strange people who actually do find significant pleasure in giving. Perhaps that makes my gift-giving a selfish act, which in itself negates the original intent, but that philosophical quagmire will be left for another post. Or not.
Nevertheless, to me, gift-giving is a very personal thing.
I understand the reasoning behind gift cards and standardized presents. If anything, I’m regularly reminded of the reasons behind these ideologies as a result of my gifts. It doesn’t matter how much thought I put into a gift to personalize it for the individual, a memory or a relationship, it can always be distorted, maligned or just simply undermined by those pernicious character traits lurking in us all: jealousy, envy, narcissism, bitterness, ignorance, and all other insidious joy destroyers. These are the storms of outside egos, the voices and emotions that muddy the waters of good intent and miss the obvious facts, and sometimes the universal truth.
This year I gave a gift to a friend. She’s a domestic goddess of sorts, a chef in her own right and a Twitter aficionado. That’s where I met her, on Twitter. We formed an instant connection based on a common passion and similar humor, but it went beyond that. Even after we met in person, that connection was undeniably authentic. There was understanding without explanation, acceptance without justification. It was one of those relationships that just came easy.
The idea was to give her a pea pod ornament that would both mirror her foodie identity and celebrate her Twitter experience. The problem: there were only nine peas in the pod. Obviously I would not be able to fit all of her friends into the pod. But then, the idea of a peas in a pod is not to include everyone. The idiom itself is indicative of a special connection beyond fun, fandom and frivolity, right? So of course I considered my friend, who she’d met in person, what I knew of her and with whom she most felt that invisible connection. It doesn’t negate other friendships. It doesn’t even downgrade them. We all have relationships in our lives that serve varying purposes and have defining strengths. You will never be in everyone’s pod anymore than everyone will be in yours. This is truly a fact of life.
After much thought, I labeled the little peas in the pod with her nine Twitter friends. They weren’t the same ones I would choose. They weren’t the same I would choose for another friend, although I did make an exact duplicate for one friend, but it was based on a specific reason to her and her experience. This was her pod, her gift.
You can guess how it all unfolded. She was thrilled with the gift and the peas not on the pod felt shucked.
Although I think we all can understand the initial “why am I not on the pod” knee-jerk reaction, maturity and logic should be the sustaining thought. The need to be included is as normal as breathing, but when dealing with hurt feelings surrounding a perceived exclusion it’s important to step outside of yourself and look at the bigger picture.
This got me thinking of relationships and the pod dynamic.
For the most part, pods are shared. You know who would be in yours and you know you would be in there’s. That’s the connection. If you’ve ever thought, “I wish I knew them better” or “I don’t really understand them” or if you don’t really miss them on a gut-wrenching level when they are absent from your days, you probably don’t share a pod. You may like the person, you may like the idea of being included in their pod, you may even be trying to form the bond that would create a gravitational pod pull. But if you don’t organically feel that abiding connection, it’s not your pod.
We are all pod people. Traditionally, we are a part of several pods from different areas of life: a family pod, school pod, work pod, online pod, fan pod, etc. Sometimes we try to blend our peas, to unite them in one big pod. The illusion of success can be seen at parties and social events, in times of tragedy and need, but pea pods a rarely fully integrated. They are linked by an indefinable soul source.
There are also times we longingly look at pods and feel the cold from the outside looking in…all the while, surrounded by the warmth of our own pod. One of the saddest things we do as humans is ignore the peas in our pod while seeking inclusion in another pod.
I’ve been thinking about my pod(s). Who are my peas? Who are the friends I connect with beyond a shared universe, or even a shared orbit, and into a shared living atmosphere? Who are the friends I don’t have to work and struggle to connect with? The friends with whom I share a “knowing” that doesn’t really make sense to anyone but us?
Everyone in my life has a significance, a special place and purpose. We share a story, a lesson, an adventure. We share a relationship experience that matters to me. But the truth is, I wouldn’t be who I am without my peas and the safety of that pod. I’m glad I have them. I’m glad you have yours.
Who would be the nine peas in your pod? Stop a minute and give them a hug.
July 14th is La Fête Nationale in France. While this is the date of the storming of the Bastille, the holiday is actually to commemorate the Fête de la Fédération. It is a symbol of the uprising of the modern nation and of the reconciliation of all the French inside the constitutional monarchy which preceded the First Republic during the French Revolution.
Last year I celebrated in Sanary, a commune situated east of Marseille in the department of Bouches-du-Rhone in the Provence-Alpes-Cote d’Azur region in southern France.
Street Performer
It’s a charming seaside community and fishing port. This area is famous for beautiful beaches, stunning views and boat tours to the Calanques, an area that features towering cliffs and dramatic inlets. We had taken one of those boat tours earlier in the day, but were now enjoying the festivities on the port.
The streets were lined with festival tents and booths where local craftsmen and artisans sold their wares, while performance artists entertained children and adults alike. We weaved through the crowds, checking out the special menus at the restaurants along the bay, until settling on a small pub near the place we had chosen for our fireworks viewing.
Picturesque Sanary
As the sun went down in the horizon, the parade of boats began. Sail boats, fishing boats and yachts, decorated with lights and ornaments, circled the harbor as patriotic music resounded through a centralized sound system. The crowds became thick in anticipation of the coming fireworks, but we found a semi-secluded spot on one of the docks.
The original celebration occurred on July 14th, 1790. The popular General Lafayette took his oath to the constitution, followed by King Louis XVI. After the end of this four day feast, people celebrated with wine, fireworks and running naked through the streets in order to display their great freedom.
The Fireworks of Bastille Day, 2012.
I kept my clothes on, but sat with my legs swinging free over the water and enjoyed a scoop of mango ice cream. The fireworks exploded against the picturesque landscape and festive port, and I was transported back in time to a child mesmerized by lights and sounds, free from worry, heartache and fear, free to be…and that is reason to celebrate.
Today I venture out to Jerusalem on my own. My thoughts are crowded, my emotions strung tight; I’ve been through a challenging couple of days. As I sit alone in the train, staring out the window at the passing landscape, I remember it’s my dad’s birthday.
It’s been twelve years since I found him unconscious, the victim of a massive stroke. I had my mother with me then, my hero, my friend. She was my glue. Now she’s gone too…and I’m on a train to the Holy Land. I wish I could tell them what’s going on, what I’m feeling; I wish I knew what they would say, what they would think. I could really use their insight.
I miss them. I miss my parents.
Tower of David
Daddy wasn’t really into church when I was young. He never stopped Mother from taking us, never argued our beliefs. He just couldn’t be a part of it. He’d lost faith along the way, a little lost beneath the hand of his father, a little more as a tortured WWII soldier in a Nazi prison camp, and even more as a police officer who experienced a little too much of the dark side of human nature. He had a hard time forgiving himself. It wasn’t until he was paralyzed by the first stroke that he started to come to terms with who he was as a man and started to search for God again.
I’m on that journey myself. I can’t forgive myself. I can’t forget. I lost my faith, and I’ve never needed it more than I do now.
I entered the old city by way of Jaffa Gate. As I stood at the busy entrance, the Tower of David to my right and the start of the Bizarre straight ahead, I knew I needed to get my bearings, to choose my path. I stopped for coffee at a Christian cafe on the corner and looked through my travel app.
Lions Gate
I wanted to walk the Via Dolorosa, the way of grief and it seemed appropriate to start my day there. It starts at the Lions Gate on the opposite side of the ancient city, so I made my way there through the narrow, crowded alleyways.
The Old City of Jerusalem was originally built in 1004 B.C.E. by Kind David, the man after God’s own heart, the boy of great faith and courage, the man of great shame and even greater honor. This city he built has been known as the center of the world. Ancient maps show three continents: Europe, Asia and Africa, situated in a circle with Jerusalem at the center. Since then Jerusalem has been cherished and glorified by Kings and conquerors. This is the land of my spiritual heritage.
The Via Dolorosa consists of 14 stations marking the path of Jesus during the last hours of his life. They are based on events that occurred along the way to Golgotha where He was crucified. I know the story well and yet as I look around me, I feel a tremor of expectation and foreboding.
It’s not as if I believe being in the land will bring me closer to God or that the location itself possesses a magical power, but I cannot deny this is having an impact beyond what I expected. Being able to see, touch, feel…to experience this journey – even with all of the changes brought by time – take it beyond a story or a vision on a screen. It removes some of the ideas and assumptions of common thought to add a true perspective, which personalizes it.
Station 1 is located on the north-west corner of the temple mount. This is the present position of the Al-Omariya school. In Roman times this was the place of the seat of Pontius Pilate, located in the Antonia fortress, and the place of the hall of judgment.
As I stand in the school yard and look into the plaza I imagine the crowds that day when Pilate asked who should be set free by popular acclaim that Passover day, as was custom.
The Church of Flagellation
“Give us Barrabas,” they cried. And he was set free.
Jesus was condemned to death that day, and even Pilate knew there was something wrong with that choice. The Bible says he turned and washed his hands of the blood of this innocent man.
I’m not innocent; I have made many mistakes. But I do know the pain of being falsely accused, of being misunderstood, of being betrayed. The tears well in my eyes as I think of how I feel in my much lesser experience, how He must felt at the gravity of what He would face. I consider the sentence placed on him that was greater than any punishment I could ever know, greater than He deserved. And yet he was born for just this purpose, this horror. This was the final leg of his destiny on earth.
Station 2 is near the compound of the Franciscan monastery. This is where Jesus was beaten and where He received the cross.
There are two churches in the compound: The Flagellation and The Condemnation. The interior of the churches house remarkable stained-glass windows and statues that illustrate the events of the conviction, flogging, the soldiers placing a crown of thorns on his head, and the cross being placed on His back.
There’s a post in the plaza between the churches that is like the one Jesus would have been strapped to as the soldiers scourged him. The tour groups have dispersed and I stand alone in the plaza. In the silence I can almost hear the echoes of the mocking voices, the crack against His skin, His painful cries. I can imagine the blood that spattered the stones and the crowd that watched.
I sit down on the cobbled ground and weep as I quote the words I’ve carried with me as promise for so many years.
“He was wounded for our transgression, He was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”
Jesus Fell
I’ve always been taught that Jesus bore our sins and our sickness. He took all my shame and pain for himself so that I could know freedom and peace, so that I could walk with confidence. I need that freedom today; I need to know that forgiveness. I am beaten and lost. I need to know that love now, more than ever.
I can hear my Mother whispering a song in my ear and I find myself singing in a soft, broken voice: “Amazing grace shall always be my song of praise for it was grace the bought my liberty. I do not know just why He came to love me so. He looked beyond my faults and saw my need.” How could anyone love so much to not only give their life, but endure so much to ensure I would have a way to peace and victory?
Station 3 is located on the corner of via Dolorosa and El Wad (Hagai) street. This is the place where Jesus fell for the first time beneath the weight of the cross. The image of this has been carved at the entrance of the Polish church built here.
The narrow streets along the Via Dolorosa
Station 4 is where Jesus met his mother, Mary. She would have come from the small alleyway, pushing her way through the crowds, desperate to catch a glimpse of her son, to have one last minute with Him. She was there with John: “When Jesus therefore saw his mother, and the disciple standing by, whom he loved, he saith unto his mother, Woman, behold thy son!” (John 19:26)
He was being humiliated and shamed, cruelly mocked and struggling to carry the weight of the cross, and yet He had the presence of mind and the selfless spirit to seek assurance His mother would be cared for when He was gone. It’s a staggering thought. I can hardly stop thinking about my own pain; I can’t block out the words that haunt me or forget the bitter experiences. But then I think of the past year, when nothing mattered but my Mother and her needs. Nothing I thought or felt was as important as easing her pain, lightening her load…ensuring she would have a future.
At Station 5, Simon helped Jesus carry the cross. I look up at the road that turns sharply to the right and climbs up the hill through a series of stairs. I lean against the corner wall and take a sip of water.
I’m carrying a small backpack and I’m feeling tired beneath the heat of the sun and the pressure of walking on the cobbled stones at a staggered incline as I weave through the streets. Jesus hadn’t eaten, was weary from the previous night of betrayal, emotionally drained from the trial and the continued mocking, physically exhausted from the beating and blood loss…
Station 6: Veronica wipes the face of Jesus. An act of unexpected kindness. How we all search for them in our time of need, when we feel forgotten and forsaken. A small Greek Catholic Chapel commemorates the moment.
Lanterns in The Church of the Holy Sepulchre
Station 7: Jesus falls the second time. This is where Jesus passed through the Gate of Judgment. This is one of the busiest streets in the Old City it would seem, and it may have been during this time of Jesus. It was an intersection of the Cardo Maximus and a traverse street of the roman Aelia-Capitolina; in modern days it’s the intersection of via Dolorosa with Khan es-Zeit (the Oil Market). The way up the hill and the pressure of the city does not make for an easy walk. Of course Jesus fell. I wonder if I will.
Station 8 is based on Luke 23:27: “But Jesus turning unto them said, Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.”
And at Station 9, Jesus fell for the third time. This is near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, on a roof courtyard above the underground Armenian Chapel of St Helen and at the entrance to the Ethiopian church of St. Michael.
By now he would have been beyond critical blood loss. His strength would have been gone, his vision blurred and eyes blocked by the blood trickling from His brow. He must have been so ready for the pain to end.
Stations 10 – 14: Jesus stripped of His garments, nailed to the cross, dying, being taken down from the cross and taken to the tomb are all marked within the walls of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.
Inside The Church of the Holy Scepulchre
The first Church of the Holy Sepulchre was approached by a flight of steps from the Cardo, the main street of Jerusalem. It was accessed through a narthex, a basilica and an open area (the holy garden), which had in it the rock of Golgotha. About 10 years after the crucifixion, a wall was built that enclosed the area of the execution within the city and separated the image of the skull from the city. (I would see the image of the skull in the landscape that gave Golgotha its name later. It is just outside the walls, and although protected, the view is blocked by a modern bus station.)
The church has been destroyed, rebuilt, captured, adapted, liberated and renovated by various religious and political sects many times throughout history. The church is richly decorated with structures, art, ornamentation and symbolic relics that mark various phases of medieval history, European imitations and Christian history. You can visit the Armenian chapel deep below ground level, and explore the Edicule on the main floor. There are beautiful mosaics, icons and lanterns, part of the rituals and reflections of the passion of Christ. Upstairs are Greek Orthodox and Catholic alters that mark the crucifixion. In all, six denominations celebrate their rites in and around this cavernous house of worship.
The church is significant in understanding contemporary Christianity and its complex history; it is certainly a living testimony to the tenacity of Christians to retain and honor their own piece of Jerusalem. But somehow I feel the personal connection to the Passion experience is lost in the elaborate embellishment and rituals, in the tension required for the varying religious groups to maintain their presence and reflect their heritage. I am immersed in the beauty and culture around me, yet it doesn’t hold the power to move me, to capture my heart as simply walking the steps of Jesus did.
It’s hard not to consider how this may actually reflect the impact of structured religion on society today. What began as a celebration, a proclamation of the gospel, and even a means of discipleship and growth has become a relic of history, a testament to the past, but not a true path to finding a deep, abiding relationship with God.
My via dolorosa
Jesus came to love. He walked among us, showing kindness and forgiveness, offering grace and mercy. He gave honor and respect, and was only relentless in sharing the love of God, not the dogma of religion.
As I leave the darkened hall of the church and squint into the sunlight, I know without a doubt I’d rather be remembered for love than arrogance; I’d rather fight for the experience of a loving relationship, than go to war for a symbol of it. My journey today has led me to a personal truth: though I am still in the midst of my via dolorosa, it doesn’t feel as meaningless and cruel. I’d rather walk the way of grief than sit in a hall of history or an emblem of fame.
I could talk about the 7,500 years of history this magical city heralds, but that wasn’t what captivated me most. It was the flea market, the shops and galleries, the restaurants and the harbor. It was the culture.
Jaffa Clock Tower
It began near the clock tower where we were gifted with music and theatrical improvisation from a local youth group. The crowds brought their Borekas (a breakfast pastry filled with cheese, potatoes or vegetables) and gathered around the center to enjoy the show. This is just the taste of culture I most enjoy when I travel, the impromptu performances and surprise festivals that bring me into the heart of the people. There’s something captivating and irresistible in the illusion of being a one with the people and not just a tourist on the inside, yet still on the outside looking in.
We made our way to the Flea Market where local artists, consignment & junk dealers, and craftsmen alike sold their wares beneath tents and along busy street corners. It was much like a neighborhood garage sale in the United States, and yet how incredible to get a glimpse into the vintage toys, games, fashions and arts of the region. Inquiring about an item can easily result in the telling of childhood stories and sharing of local folklore from the sellers.
Jonah & the Whale Inspired Fountain
The small alleyways and streets which make up this city are lined with interesting shops to accentuate the flea market experience. There’s an intriguing balance of history and modernism to the area: the graffiti lined walls and artists sculptures intermixed with modern architecture easily transition to a Napoleon era stone buildings and monuments.
We come across a fountain with a large whale sculpture. I immediately think of the Biblical story Jonah and the Whale, but my friend isn’t convinced Jaffa was even a real port or city in Biblical times. I disagreed.
“Jonah was ordered by God to go to Nineveh to prophesy against it because of their great wickedness,” I explained to my friend. “Jonah went to Jaffa instead and sailed from there to Tarshish. A storm came and the people on the boat became afraid. They blamed the storm on Jonah because of his disobedience and tossed him overboard so that they would survive. A whale came and swallowed him and he stayed in the stomach of the whale for three days before finally being puked up on dry land. Needless to say, he went to Nineveh.”
It turns out the sculpture was indeed inspired by the story of Jonah. It was created by the local artist Ilana Goor.
Our journey takes up passed a missing section of Jaffa’s walls, where they were breached by Napoleon’s soldiers in 1799, and up a set up stairs that take up to Mazal Dagim Street. Narrow covered streets with artwork installed on the walls make up this section of the city. Many of the streets in Old Jaffa are named for zodiac signs. As we peruse the various shops and galleries, we keep an eye out for the streets that represent our signs so we can take a cheesy tourist picture, until we come across an organic sculpture of a suspended orange tree. It was created by artist Ran Morin and was inspired by the great Israeli icon the Jaffa Orange. I slid beneath the tree since it’s important to capitalize on the moments when you’re working for cheesy photos.
We come across an archaeological site with a sculpture representing an Egyptian gate (Ramses Gate), a memorial of Pharaoh Thutmose III who conquered the city in the 15th century B.C.E. by sending baskets of gifts to the king of Jaffa with Egyptian soldiers hidden inside. “Clearly a Trojan Horse is more cinematically appealing than a Pharaoh Basket, but apparently the dramatic results are the same,” we can’t help but note as we follow the stone paved path up to the top of Tel Jaffa to a gate-like sculpture by artist Dan Kafri. It’s called the Statue of Faith and depicts several biblical scenes carved on the sculpture, including the binding of Isaac, the conquest of Jericho and Jacob’s ladder. But my attention is quickly pulled away from identifying the scenes by the breathtaking view of Tel Aviv’s Mediterranean coast.
It’s peaceful and serene as we stare out into the horizon over the water. For a moment I can feel the weight of history upon me, but it is quickly interrupted by the chants coming from the nearby mosque. It’s prayer time and the al-Bahr mosque is broadcasting it from the tower. It is Jaffa’s oldest existing mosque that was renovated in 1997.
As we descend the tell, there is a surreal feel to the experience. The chants continue to surround us as we approach St. Peter’s Church, a basilica and hospice built in the late 19th century by the Franciscan Order with funding from the Spanish royal house. One of the chapels is part of an earlier church built on the same location by the Crusader king Louis IX. The church is dedicated to where Peter had a vision while in a trance on the roof of Simon the Tanner.
Best Hummus in Old City Jaffa
Just north of the church we can see the rocks at the entrance to Jaffa Port. My friend explains Greek mythology tells the story of Perseus saving Andromeda and the city of Jaffa by slaying the sea monster Ketos Aithiopios along these rocks. I’m impressed and find myself yelling “Release the Cracken,” quoting the movie Clash of the Titans. I have to catch up to my embarrassed friend. She’s now on a quest, perusing the market along the harbor for something to drink.
I am enjoying a cinnamon infused lemonade as we meander through the busy port when we discover an art exhibit in one of the vacant warehouses. The artists are from Israel and Palestine, and the exhibit unites the countries through the talent of young artists. It is interesting to note the contrast in the overall feel and expression in the pieces from the two countries: hope vs. despair, depression vs. anger. We discuss politics and the desire for peace that isn’t always represented in propaganda in the States. It’s a look inside a generation who’ve never known peace, but dream of a time when their leaders will break the pattern and hear their cries.
Much of the graffiti in the area represents this theme. As we take photos and discuss the images on the walls and buildings, a local points us toward the best hummus stand in Jaffa. How could we resist such a suggestion?
Sunset in Old City Jaffa
Within minutes we’re standing in line on a crowded residential street corner making our way toward the small building that houses a kitchen, six tables and a takeaway window. We carry our order down the street a bit and straddle a wall overlooking the Jaffa Lighthouse. It is there I learn to scoop hummus like a native and learn a few Hebrew words. It is there I begin to feel a little more at home.
We return to the port to watch the sunset. It’s a kaleidoscope of color, accompanied by the songs of the street musicians. I feel the breeze off the Mediterranean and I’m in awe of the beauty of this country.
Who can resist the healing waters? The minerals? The mud?
Called Yam HaMawet in Hebrew, the Dead Sea is 1,388 feet below sea level, Earth’s lowest point on land. It is also one of the deepest hypersaline lakes in the world with 33.7% salinity. It is this salinity that makes it impossible for aquatic animals and plants to survive. By contrast, it is a major center for health research surrounding the mineral content of the water, the low pollen and allergens in the atmosphere, the reduced ultraviolet rays in the dessert area, and the higher atmospheric pressure at such a low level. It is interesting to note the area is known as one of the world’s first health resorts, dating back to the time of Herod the Great. Even now it continues to supply a wide variety of health and beauty products, balms, herbal sachets and a multitude of miracle cures based on the chemistry found in these waters.
We took the time to mud-up at the waters edge, creating a body mask that would work miracles on my skin, then searched for the perfect spot to enter that water for the float.
Over 1.2 million foreign tourists visit the Dead Sea each year. In fact, “floating” in the Dead Sea is advertised as one of the top 10 things to do in Israel. What interested me the most is the discovery that floating is not an option, it’s a command of nature that will be followed!
There’s nothing to compare with this experience. Upon entering the water, I was immediately taken with the thick, oily feel to the water and the slight sulfuric odor, but as the water reached waist level I was distracted by how difficult it became to maintain my stance. It was as if the water was pushing my legs out from under me. It actually took a concentrated effort to remain standing. When I finally gave in to the pressure of the sea and allowed myself to be swept off my feet (wouldn’t you know it would be the Dead Sea and not a man that finally did it), I discovered the true essence of floating.
You see, anything with a higher density than water will sink in water. The human body is, by weight, roughly two-thirds water, and therefore a density quite similar to that of water. The factor that affects the natural ability to float is body composition: greater muscle density or a low ratio of fat to muscle fiber will produce a greater tendency to sink. Regardless, the water content of the human body creates a pull toward floating above sinking. This is why the standard floating experience involves consciously relaxing, breathing deep, stretching out your body and engaging your core muscles. To compensate for the dynamics of body composition, you need to give up a bit of control and stop fighting physics. This is simply not the case in the Dead Sea. The salt content of the water increases the density of the sea. When the human body is submerged in the water it creates a buoyancy effect or a “forced float.”
Floating in the Dead Sea
I submitted to the will of the saline. As I found myself relaxing because I was floating (and not relaxing to be able to float), I was struck by the stillness in the air and the remote beauty of the desert surroundings. The monochromatic nature of the mountains and dunes in contrast to the blue of the sea was quite breathtaking.
I thought about the path we’d taken to the sea. It took us along the mountains through what would have been the Biblical cities of Admah, Zeboim and Zoar, the cities in the plain, but also along the southeastern shore, an area believed to be the location of Sodom and Gomorra, the cities destroyed in the time of Abraham. In many ways it is easy to see the attraction for desert living that distracted Abraham from following God’s original direction and caused him to linger as a desert nomad.
Edward Abbey once wrote “The desert holds a perfect and natural balance between lifelessness and living vibrancy.” As I float and breathe in the crisp air, feel the quiet of the land and the vastness of the canyons, cliffs and desert surrounding me, I experience the immensity of the world around me in contrast to the smallness of me. I am just a speck of sand, and yet perhaps in the greater purpose I join with others to texture the landscape as a moving line of beauty, a ripple of life on barren hills.
I see my friend lounging near the waters edge. In a world where individuals get lost in the crowds and responsibilities, where people don’t even know their neighbors and struggle to make friends…in a desert of loneliness and loss, we somehow connected. We’re like the sea. There’s nothing to explain or sustain us, no logical reason we should have bonded, and yet it’s as if all of the elements of impossibilities conjoined to give us buoyancy, to help us float when we should be sinking.
It’s an homage to my mother and a strangely appealing step in the mourning process. More importantly, it has shed some light into the dark recessess of a wandering soul, specifically revealing the metaphor “I am a lighthouse.”
There’s a certain lore surrounding Lighthouses: the remote tower of strength, lighting the way, directing boats through perilous waters, and guiding the lost through the storm. And then there’s the mythos of the lonely lighthouse keeper, cut off from the world, faithful to a greater cause than self. Through my lighthouse journeys these past few months, I have found myself relating to this image more than I would like, and yet less troubled by the notion with the passing of time. I can appreciate the ironies
My journey home from Baltimore sent me along the eastern coast, where many lighthouses remain as both historical monuments and functional forms of navigation.
Naturally, I stopped.
It’s not uncommon to find a lighthouse on a military base. As the lighthouse protects the seafaring traveler from dangers and hazards so they may find safe passage, the military guards that same harbor to prevent dangers from passing the borders. My stop at the Cape Henry Lighthouse brought me to the gates of the Fort Story Army base.
Now, I’ve been on military bases before so I was prepared for the usual protocols. Unfortunately I forgot the most important rule: Don’t do anything until they tell you.
They search your car at the gate. I was prepared and ready…and moved too soon. I opened my door while the soldier was still looking at my paperwork. He went for his gun.
What???
I froze, of course. I must have looked like a deer facing the headlights because he smiled, though he remained tense and alert.
“I moved too soon,” I said the obvious.
“You’ve done this before.” He speaks the obvious too. “Generally you’re not supposed to get out the car until I tell you. I need to ascertain if you’re a danger.”
I can understand that, but now I’m nervous. When I’m nervous I go for humor or sass. With a good-looking soldier, I go for both apparently.
“Did you want to search me?”
He stared at me blankly.
“I figured,” I instantly responded. “I’m generally not that lucky.”
He grinned.
“I’m here to see the lighthouse.” See, I am capable of regaining my composure.
“You’ve been on base before?” He asked.
“Not on this one,” I answered. “I’ve been on other bases so I understood the process – thought I’d get out of the car and move things along. Good to know my moves bring out the guns.”
He laughed. It was a real laugh from deep within that transformed the hardened features of this very disciplined soldier.
“I’m going to let you get out of the car,” he said, and instructed me to open all of the car doors, the hatch and the hood. I followed instructions well.
“You can close them,” he said from behind me. What? I only just finished!
“You already checked me out?”
“Oh, yes,” he grinned. “I followed your every move.”
Now I laughed. He was cute. What was I here for again?
He gave me directions to the lighthouse explaining I shouldn’t go beyond the flashing lights.
“If you pass them, you’ve gone too far and you’ll enter a restricted area,” he leaned toward me. “Then I will have to search you and put you in the brig.”
“You say the nicest things,” I teased, dramatically fluttering my eye lashes.
He grinned. “And you have made my day.”
Traffic was building up behind me, so I couldn’t stay. It was a sad moment for me. But I pushed forward and found the lighthouse. Only, there were two of them!
The original was manned by the historical society. It was made of aquia creek sandstone, the same bricks that make up the White House. A little history revealed the top of the lighthouse was blown off during a hurricane in the 1950s. It was rebuilt and in 1964 became a historical preservation landmark. I walked the spiral staircase to the top of the 90 foot structure and enjoyed the view. Specifically the shore and the new lighthouse across the way.
The new lighthouse is cast iron and wrought iron construction, and stands 157 feet tall. It is an active lighthouse, fully automated and not open for public tours. It does make for beautiful photos, especially from the adjacent memorial garden leading up to the beach.
The restrictions of the base is limiting for tourists – it’s not as if you can hang out on the beach and enjoy water sports – but this is an enjoyable short excursion in Virginia Beach. For lighthouse enthusiasts or history buffs, it’s a must see. For others, it’s a nice detour if you’re bored. For single women or gay men, it’s anticlimactic after the gate search.
As I left, I waved to the soldier.
“You didn’t pass the flashing lights,” he called out. “I’m impressed.”
“We could always pretend I did,” I said. “Your brig or mine?”
I like to give gifts. I’m a gift-giver. You know, one of those strange people who actually do find significant pleasure in giving. Perhaps that makes my gift-giving a selfish act, which in itself negates the original intent, but that philosophical quagmire will be left for another post. Or not.
by G. Anne Bassett 