Life by Proverb
In the early spring of 2005 I embarked on a journey that started as an adventure and ended up being magic. A pilgrimmage of sorts, toward a new understanding.
I went to Istanbul and wandered into corners seldom visited by those who rush: in the Grand Bazaar I met Mert who talked of reincarnation and the mystery of lives we have lived before... I spoke to a 14-year old boy from Afghanistan who had escaped the Taliban and wished only for his girlfriend to be able to join him... I listened as the man who sold me glittering belts talked about desire; in Arasta Bazaar I met Hasan and Mehmet who surrounded themselves with handwoven beauty... I drank cherry tea with Murat from Eastern Turkey who told me about his life, and another Murat talked of time and the timelessness of love and the inevitability of death, in a voice as deep as midnight.
In Rome I sat one evening in a gelateria, alone until Max appeared; a stranger I somehow knew, drawn by something we weren't able to define. That night over a bottle of wine in the Borgo, we spoke quietly about life and death and love and loss, and the color of roses and the taste of a kiss, and the ache for those things we want but do not know how to name.
In Venice I wandered for days through tiny streets and over innumerable bridges, listened to echoing footsteps in palaces and cathedrals drenched with color, light streaming in from windows under ceilings far above my line of sight. I sat at night outside a cafe at the base of the Ponte Rialto with the water lapping at my toes as the sun went down over the city, and wondered what my dreams would turn into if I stayed too long in this city of wonders.
I had felt, in Istanbul, an undercurrent, the beginnings of something that eventually became -- and is still becoming -- a part of who I am, and that will change me into someone I don't yet know. I couldn't shake the sense that something was moving toward me, a kind of dawning awareness I would one day awaken to. This feeling was borne of those conversations in the ancient Roman garden outside Arasta Bazaar, and in the tiny room above a shop of the Grand Bazaar... it was the light reflected in the Canal at night... the ancient stone of cathedrals and mosques, the passion behind frescoes on hidden walls in halls of mysteries, and the timelessness of muzzenins calling from the minarets over a land seeped in stark beauty... it was bells echoing through cobblestone streets in Italy and the rich sounds of languages I didn't understand... it was the magic of night in Istanbul... in Venice... in Rome... it was Vivaldi at midnight in St. Mark's square... the rain in Piazza St. Pietro and the way it misted the outlines of the dome... it was the glitter of mosaics in Aya Sophia, glowing even in shadows... and it was the taste of wine and sweet chocolate in Rome, and questions of what if...
It was all these things. I felt that something was at work beyond the edges of what I could see... taste... touch.
This poem is a reflection of my journey. It slid into my mind gently in Istanbul, not yet words but only essence. One evening on the edge of the Grand Canal in Venice as the tide slipped over the edges of the stone steps at my feet, the words began to form....
{Copyright Teresa Cutler, 2006}
