As we near the end of our visit to my Swiss childhood home, I am filled with impressions, indents and enrichments to senses and self.
I gather some of them up here, in part to share with you as a thank you for all the times I get to travel vicariously through your reports, dear friends; in part so that they pop up again in the memory function some day in the future to re-member.
New Year’s eve, thousands are gathered in front of the Muenster, the cathedral in the old town of Basel. Up on the cathedral balcony trombone players grace the crowds with their music, as we sing along to the old hymns. Ten minutes before midnight, they stop playing and are replaced by the church bells ringing out the old year. The bells chime non-stop till midnight, and as the clock strikes twelve, they are replaced by lighter bells ringing in the new year. This transition of ringing out the old and ringing in the new year, flooded in an orange-pink light, with young and old huddled against the suddenly brewing wind and rain storm, followed by half an hour of fireworks lighting up the city sky offers a wonderful collective experience of transiting, of releasing the old and welcoming the new.
My grandmother’s hands – small, dainty and strong simultaneously. The skin softened, the nails still so pretty. She, 99 years old in a month, as fiesty as ever, humour-filled and giving, tender, a twinkle in her eye, slowly releasing from this embodied existence and yet still so here. She reaches over to take my hands in hers. I do the same. Often. The touch, so precious, so fleeting. Time passes for all of us. I love her with all my heart.
Cobblestones under my feet – in every town and city, offering satisfying grip to the boots under my feet. They wind up narrow alleyways and cover generous squares. Each stone a little square, together a street. History held in the littlest to the biggest. How long has each lain there? What all has passed over them?
The bread, oh my God, the bread… after over 20 years of wheat-free eating with only the very rare exception, I give in. Resistance is futile. The crust, the dough… Nothing more to say. I’ll get back on track soon, but for now… 😉
Family. Familiar faces, habits, expressions, jokes, quirks, cares and concerns, crazy-making knots and delightful encounters, new inquiries and discoveries. These people, these roots, this closeness, and gaps between where I have come from and who I am now… Discombobulated at times and comforted too. Love over time, forever. The bonds are visceral and strong.
Friends too, especially one soul-sister – thank you, B, for the ways we weave our connection across distance and time.
The very particular smell of green grass, cow manure, fresh mountain air. Always a keeper in my mind. Could be bottled up for a veritable Swiss whiff in the future should I miss my mountain home here.
Walking every day, over fields and trails, amidst mountains and valleys so near and dear to my soul. I can’t get enough of it, could walk all day, every day, taking it in, inhaling the views, the feel of it all. Encountering Mary statutes tucked in rock walls, chapels built in her honour, offering a moment to pause and say hello to her Presence. How I love Her sprinkled across this landscape, concrete reminders of her holy Self.
Church bells. My favorite time keeper. Each village has their own. Sometimes in a city, numerous ones will ring together, from one tower to another, blending into a great Sound, stopping those who listen in their tracks, to note, to pause, to remember, to re-commit to whatever it is that is the guiding Force in their lives, or simply to revel in their glorious big sound.
Thousands gathered in meditative prayer in the city of Basel, singing Taize songs, one merging into another, filling the dried up spaces within and without. Replenishing and offering soul solace.
A few more impressions before I go… The shopkeepers are so kind and thoughtful. Thank you, lovely shopkeepers. Switzerland is getting more and more built up, with practical, ugly, square apartment blocks, covering the original old houses, a true hodge-podge of style and aesthetics. People in my home town still say ‘Gruezi’ as you pass by them on the street, a habit I cherish. This afternoon I finally made it to the nearby ski hill, in the worst conditions… no visibility, ice, grass patches… it was so bad it was funny. After bragging for years about the awesome Swiss skiing, my daughter laughed alongside me as we skidded down determinedly. She fortunately had enjoyed some of the awesome version of skiing earlier during our stay. I waited too long.
And now, last night before returning to our Canadian home… bittersweet every time. Thank you, Life.
