Staying here on campus over break, the Triduum looked quite different this year than it has in years past — long walks replaced car rides, peaceful prayer and reading replaced raucous easter egg hunts, and corndogs replaced easter ham (yes, I really did eat a corn dog for easter dinner!). Yet, the near-empty campus and the long-awaited warm weather gave me a different, equally good break, filled with miles of walking, hours of reflection, and some much-needed peace and silence.
The liturgical sequence of Holy Thursday, Good Friday, and finally, the Easter Vigil, has always been some of my favorite days of the year. This year, break began with peaceful studying and reading on Wednesday evening with friends on the Hoval.
lounging in a hammock…
Next came Holy Thursday Mass and adoration at St. Paul’s the local cathedral here, just 2 miles (an easy walk) off campus.
don’t be fooled by my smile — my legs were sore for days!
Good Friday more practice, studying, and finally, another walk off campus, to the peaceful St. Catherine’s Parish.
a beautiful sky on my walk over!the view after practice!
And then finally, after a long lent, the Easter Vigil! Both Saturday and Sunday were gloriously warm, which of course meant more reading, walking, and a peaceful chapel visit.
All in all, it was a lovely break and a much-needed time to rest, relax, and prepare myself for the rest of the semester. Happy Easter everyone!
you know it’s spring when the flowerpots are filled again!happy đhow could you not fall in love with St. Joseph’s?the light in St. Joseph’s in the evening is unlike anything else!
I learned a long time ago that churches are traditionally built as ships, with tall, arched ceilings like the keel and a pointed center like a bow. Although there are numerous biblical analogies and historical parallels that might be drawn, the representation of the church as a ship bringing her passengers to safe harbor became particularly and unexpectedly visceral for me this weekend.
Those in New England already know of the record low temperatures and wind that we all saw over this past weekend. Here at HC, we were advised to stay inside, and only go out when necessary. I, of course (with my supreme planning skills and logic), had a work shift on the coldest night, and thus bundled myself up to make the trek from my room to Kimball, where I work. Given the advisory, the shift was near empty, meaning that my time was spent mostly in pleasant conversation with my coworkers rather than my usual tasks. However, when our shift ended, and it was time to brave the storm once again, and head on our separate ways, I found myself inexplicably tired (despite my lack of activity over the past hours) and, as soon as stepped foot outside, cold. It had been a long week, and I wanted nothing more than to teleport right into my waiting bed.
It was in such a state that I sought shelter in St. Josephâs, which to me stood as a bright, warm respite on the cold and weary path back to my room. As I entered, it struck me that, while the winds outside screamed with fury like I have never heard before, the inside of the chapel remained warm, dry, and peaceful, seemingly unfazed by the chaos outside her doors. Sitting in the last pew, allowing the feeling to come back in my hands and feet, the chapel appeared to me more than ever before like a ship, remaining and strong and constant while the turbulent storm raged outside.
Only a few weeks into the semester, my life, and many othersâ can feel and even look much like the storms outside. Tossed on the waves of homework and deadlines, blown away by an increasing number of responsibilities and plans, it feels as though âsafe harborâ is a wholly unreachable goal. Yet, although during the day you and I are forced to captain our own ships, planning, working, studying, it is reassuring to know that in the dark and storms, we may peacefully take refuge as, not the captain, but the passenger, of another, safer ship: the church.
Iâve always loved watching people. The âshower thought,â if you will, that each and every person you see and pass has their own, equally complicated and chaotic world that they alone inhabit â that no one else will ever know completely, has always been in equal parts comforting and terrifying to me, and I love to sit and wonder about other peoplesâ little worlds: are they like mine? Do they see what I see? Are they wondering the same? Although there are many spots on campus where one could engage in such an activity, my favorite is in the Prior practice rooms. Enclosed by glass walls, I can watch the people on the ground floor, three floors down from where I sit, do everything from study, to sip tea, to perform. The result, at least for me, is the happy knowledge that, although separated by sound-proofed walls, I am far from alone.
My Montserrat course, entitled âWorlds of Senseâ this semester, has been reading German philosopher Markus Gabrielâs âWhy the World Does not Exist.â (By the world, he means an idea, category, or uniting factor by which everything that is real can be defined [and if that doesnât make sense to you, donât worry â it doesnât to me or any of my classmates either!]). Although we are only a few chapters in, and barely two weeks into the semester, a few of his claims have already taken up semi-permanent residence in my mind, leaving me constantly puzzling over his words and ideas. Now, sitting in Cool Beans, watching the students, professors, and staff come and go, this quote comes to mind:
âFrom a cosmic perspective, it looks very much as if, in the interests of pure survival, we cling to an arrogant fantasy, namely the idea that humanity and its life world are something special⌠To a galaxy long since deceased, whose light has just reached us, it is of utterly no concern whether or not I ate breakfast this morning.â
This sounds, albeit fatalistic, correct. The world will go on, and each of our little worlds will each go on too, with seemingly no effect on each other. I will practice in that little soundproofed room while a class above me will study philosophy, and the workshop below me builds a set for a play; the people across the building from me will wonder at the art galleryâs new exhibit, and the students who sit at tables below me will sip their tea, study their work, and laugh with one another. But Gabriel doesnât leave us there, as little ants in a galaxy far too big for us. In fact, the entire basis of his claims is that the universe â everything that we know and see of the space around us â is just one, tiny part of the world.
In fact, to Gabriel, I am not separated from the rest of the building at all, despite being alone. For the students on the ground floor, I am the cellist practicing on the third floor, and to the passers-by in the hallway, I am the one whose music they can faintly hear. To the art gallery, I am the musician across from them, and maybe for another student, I am the one whose little world they contemplate. I exist in the material world, yes, but I am also a part of each of those little worlds as well â the worlds that I may never even think about.
So while my world may be small, even miniscule, and insignificant from the perspective of the universe, you and I are not. No, we are so many things, and a part of so many worlds. I may not understand Gabrielâs philosophy, and I may never know the depths of your worlds, but I can say this: how wonderful it is that I ate breakfast this morning! How wonderful is it that, from my and your perspective, breakfast is of such importance! And how wonderfully, fantastically arrogant indeed that you and I are so special, our existence so multi-faceted and so relevant from the view of that practice room!
some yummy food from croads that I enjoyed in a nook in, you guessed it, PPAC!the view from the practice room! (PPAC was empty because this was taken late at night):)
There is a bronze figure that sits, centered on the middle plateau of the steps, leading into Dinand Library: a hand, black and shining, pierced by a nail through the center of itsâ palm, its fingers impossibly relaxed, reaching upwards, always shining with either the glint of the sun or the gentle sheen of raindrops. Reluctantly trudging up the stairs to tackle the dayâs homework inside, walking across the front brick pathway to Smith, running down the steps to our class in Stein, it is seemingly impossible to ignore. It quite literally stands in oneâs way; whatever path you take, it must be around that towering figure. Yet, it took me two weeks â 14 days of walking by â to stop and see itsâ name: âThe Hand of Christ.â
This awe-inspiring statue was crafted by Ezno Plazzotta in 1966.
As a freshman, one of the biggest questions weâre asked is, âwhy are you here?â. To that, I have no good answer. Unlike many students here, who have grown up as âcrusaders,â knowing that this was their first-choice school, I didnât know Holy Cross existed until around this time last year. It was late one evening, sitting at my desk, panicking over college applications, that I was decided to look for schools that I could add to my list of choices. Desperate, and having no idea where to begin, I googled âCatholic Colleges,â and for no particular reason, I clicked on the link to âCollege of the Holy Cross.â The rest is history.
Quite like âThe Hand of Christ,â that, despite having to walk past each day, multiple times a day, I took no notice of, I have often dismissed my finding of Holy Cross that night as chance: a random, lucky event. Apparently, it takes a massive bronze sign to catch my attention and make me realize that my coming here was no accident; it truly was the hand of Christ.
The figure is, in many ways, a gruesome sight to behold. No interior designer would tell you to decorate your space with a disembodied hand, let alone one pierced by a nail. Yet, every morning, as I walk past that figure, I smile. It is a reminder that He, a very human God, who has done everything (and much more) before me, has a better plan than I do. It is a reminder that good things, sometimes, are only a google search away.
