All the Beauty in the World
On awe, the sacred, and quiet beginnings I didn't know were happening
Hello friend,
I am back from walking the Camino, and there still lives a deep longing in my heart to be back on the way, putting one foot in front of the other for hours and hours in this magnificent nature.
My learnings from the Camino are still sitting in me, concocting their shape and form, and I listen intently for them so that I may write them into existence. You will be the first I share them with.
One of the things I did to consciously connect back with what fills my buckets is take a creative non-fiction writing class with the wonderful Darryl Whetter. In this class, I was tasked to write seven essays in the genre of travel writing. It is said that the thing we need to write about will emerge no matter what the given prompt may be - and I found this to be true in writing what I thought was an essay about the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, Spain.
Reading the essay as I prepare it for this post I realise that I might just have captured the moment of a quiet beginning I didn’t know was happening.
I hope you like it, or that it may bring you somewhere familiar, beautiful or quietly alive.
Unwanted Gifts
(Originally titled “La Sagrada Familia”)
2024 has been a whirlwind of a year, moving at a hurricane pace, leaving destruction in its wake and me, steamrolled and defeated. So as I clicked on Zoom’s inane “Join Meeting” button for the seventh time one day in early April, my mind filled with intrusive thoughts about how a 38-year-old financially independent woman like me should be living my best life out there, yet here I sit, nodding sporadically as I feign interest in the latest update for yet another initiative that will most predictably go nowhere fast.
Travel has always rejuvenated me, but the other unwanted gift that 2024 bestowed upon me was monthly work trips that were more about seeing customers in windowless rooms than seeing sights, so I decided to plan a trip for myself. One that would sate my wanderlust cup to the brim and be packed with all of my favourite things: beautiful architecture to be in awe of, delicious meals to fill my belly and serendipitous encounters. The answer was obvious - Barcelona, and in particular, Sagrada Familia, the unfinished basilica that is perhaps as much a reflection of the importance of the Catholic faith in Spain as it is of the mañana mentality that the Spaniards pull off so well.
I had visited the basilica twice before, first in 2013 then in 2018, so part of me worried that seeing the Sagrada Familia a third time would be overkill. Still, the memory of how immensely beautiful the basilica is proved to be way more powerful than logic and practicality. My heart won.
The Sagrada Familia is a choose-your-own-adventure type of experience. You may marvel at the three facades, the Nativity celebrating Jesus’s birth, the Passion depicting Jesus’s crucifixion, or the Glory dedicated to the glorious nature of Jesus. You may crane your neck observing the detailing of the sandstone towers, some complete, some still under construction, but none of them exceeding the height of Monjuïc hill close by, as the chief architect, Gaudí, believed that nothing man-made should stand higher than God’s work.
I chose to let the audio guide decide my route and let myself meander along the periphery of the basilica as I avoided unintentionally photobombing tourists attempting to capture the facades in all their glory. Seeing something for the third time risks feeling repetitive, boring even, but I found myself playing spot the difference between Sagrada Familia 2018 and Sagrada Familia 2024, noticing details my mind had not taken in before and letting my eyes land on my favourite features selected from past visits - the 4x4 magic square on the Passion facade with rows, columns and diagonals adding up to the number 33, the age at which Jesus was crucified (or might it be a masonic symbol hidden in plain sight?), the doors lined with letters made of smelted bronze where I found the word “queer”, and the screaming stone turtles squished under the pillars that hold the Nativity facade up; a sea turtle on the coastal edge, a land tortoise closer to the mountains - both equally laboured.
Gaudí started work on his magnum opus in 1883 and dedicated himself wholly to the architectural feat in 1915 as a result of his increasing piousness. I tried, for the third time, to identify with the religious fervour that drove many design decisions of the church, from the imagery used to the distance between pillars, but I struggled. My belief in God is one that acknowledges the existence of one or more benevolent gods who occasionally choose to intervene with the universe and humans. The attribution of everything that exists to a single entity is something that I am still quite unsure of, but occasionally open to.
The audio guide instructs me to enter the main nave and I comply. The forest of double twist columns branching upwards to form a canopy greets me and overwhelms me at the same time.
Cathedrals built with high ceilings and impressive interiors make me feel small. In this instance, it is the feeling best described by the Hebrew word “Yirah”, the fear that arises when one has stepped into a new spaciousness or when one senses the presence of the divine. The granite columns that connect heaven to earth seem infinite from where I stand, and the natural light filtering through the stained glass windows treat my eyes to a fiesta of colour. It is gentle, comforting, like an airy embrace. Around me, visitors explore the interior respectfully, speaking in low tones, some standing, some sitting on the pews but I find myself rooted to the ground. The audio guide is speaking to me but I don’t hear it because I’m trying to make sense of how someone managed to put all the beauty in the world in this one spot. My heart could burst.
Hot tears prick my eyes and blur my vision as I try, desperately, to blink them away so that I may continue to soak up every detail there is. My efforts prove to be futile. My nasal passage feels sour and snot threatens to drip as I frantically rummage through my bag for a tissue.
The sacred may take on many interpretations and here, it represents to me the divinity of beauty and its appreciation. Chinese names all have meaning behind them, and mine, 明琳, alludes to me having beauty to observe in my life (琳琅满目). Perhaps this is what my tears were about - standing in insurmountable awe and connecting back with divinity after having neglected it for what feels like ages, in service of chasing a career goal that was no longer meaningful to me.
I leave the majestic basilica, my soul fed with the most nourishing meal it had been craving, now in search of the most delicious jamón atop pan con tomate according to Google reviews, and in the longer term, of the fulfilled life that I want to be living. I would put my resignation in a month later, but that fact was not known to me yet, like the surprises Sagrada Familia may have for me next upon future visits.
An Invitation
Most of the time, the moments that mark the beginning of little shifts don’t arrive with thunder. They tend to be quiet, surprising, and sometimes even delightful in the midst of struggling to find tissues in a bag.
Which moments in your life keep coming back to you?
I invite you to sit with them, or journal about them. We don’t have to understand everything that has happened just yet, but it’s helpful to notice that they did.
Tissues in easy reach,
Min
The heart stirs in least expected ways, at times awaking the mind and soul from slumber, only to find the word ‘lost’ strangely familiar.
Thanks for the reminder.