Intersections of Spirit

On Sunday, The Boy and I made a pilgrimage to Mission Dolores. I should say it was something of a cinematic pilgrimage because, as Hitchcock devotees, it's one of the rare places where Hitch did film on location (he was loathe to film anywhere outside of a soundstage).

Aside from being a scenic star in the film Vertigo, Mission Dolores is the oldest intact building in San Francisco, opening its doors on June 29, 1776. This is the only remaining mission chapel of the twenty-one missions established under the direction of Father Juniperro Serra. The Mission has been present for the entire course of San Francisco's "modern" history, including the California Gold Rush and the 1906 quake.

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It was a peaceful day, inside and out. The cemetery was serene. It's a rare sensation to be in a place that truly spans generations of history. Those places feel more real to me than any others.

Inside the small adobe mission building, the light was quiet and golden. The air was cool and smelled faintly of incense. The mission itself has the air of history more so than of worship. The original altar from the late 1700s is flanked by various priestly figures made of plaster, some in aspects of adoration and others more worldly. The statue I remember most seemed more of a soldier in a monk's robe, holding a cross in one hand and a raised sword in the other.

The basilica next door is much newer than the mission, constructed in 1918. It was deserted and beautiful in its purity of total quiet. The space is full of gentle arches that swell to support the dome, annexes filled with saints and candles that wait for the devoted. Some walls are covered with tiny, glinting mosaics of gilded and colorful tiles that delight the eye.

While we sat inside the basilica, The Boy and I quietly discussed what it means to have a community of spirit. The Boy feels that a church is a good and valuable place for people to feel uplifted and share a common purpose. I too am all for that, as long as those beliefs do not come at the cost of another human's freedom (and by freedom, I mean of one's own physical person, education and opinions) or their life. As someone who has personally experienced religious intolerance at different times in my life, the flip side of a mission's purpose has more prominence in my sensibilities.

I believe that the certain spiritual feeling that people crave can emanate from other endeavours and other places, too, where people are drawn together, perhaps work together, and feel inspiration from a larger purpose.

The missions especially distinctly embody the intersection of two cultures, European and Native American. But certain cultures are now extinct, consumed: the Ohlone and Miwok Indians. Who speaks for them?

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Below is a selection from my bedtime reading lately. More than anything, I think it is that sense of awe we crave above all else.

"By far the best way I know to engage in the religious sensibility, the sense of awe, is to look up on a clear night. I believe that it is very difficult to know who we are until we understand where and when we are. I think everyone in every culture has felt a sense of awe and wonder looking at the sky. This is reflected in the world in both science and religion. Thomas Carlyle said that wonder is the basis of worship. And Albert Einstein said, 'I maintain that the cosmic religious feeling is the strongest and noblest motive for scientific research.' So if both Carlyle and Einstein could agree on something, it has a modest possibility of even being right." ~ Excerpted from The Varieties of Scientific Experience: A Personal View of the Search for God, by Carl Sagan.

Photos all happily taken by me: part of the Mission Dolores Basilica, Fr. Serra in the cemetery, sunlight on science books at Adobe Bookstore on 16th Street. More photos of the day can be found here.

For those of you who want to learn more about the intersections of expansion and the Native Americans, please read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Although it doesn't speak directly to the Miwok and Ohlone experience, it is an important book, hearbreaking and necessary reading for all.

Strangers on a Train

When I first moved to the city, I used to really love taking the train to work. The whole idea of not having to sit in traffic, worry about parking, look for gas stations when the tank's on empty--all of those normal little anxieties instantly evaporated. (Actually, I still am really grateful for not having to deal with those things anymore.)

I used to tell people that I loved Muni when I first moved here, and they looked at me like I had carrots growing out of my ears. Now I realize that that was a pretty greenhorn thing to say because the SF public transportation system has some major problems. But taking the train still beats driving (at least here in the city where people drive like nuts--be warned). Now I just get embarrased for us in theory, picturing what imaginary Parisians taking our trains must think because our meager subway system is such a sad little joke when compared to the Paris metro.

You just have to learn the unspoken rules on how to ride on the train. Like where to stand on the platform to get on the least crowded train or who gets dibs on a newly vacated seat. The other thing you are supposed to learn about the train is how not to look at people. (There's an interesting concept about the familiar stranger that ties in with this, and of course the Walker Evans photo above says a lot.)

When I don't get a seat (which means I can't read my book--I'm not one of those talented, multi-tasking riders who can grip a pole with one hand and a book in the other), I have my little train games. I still do enjoy looking at people (it's my train cabaceo). Once in a while I can get a person to smile back at me. I like to wink at the occasional little kid, but many of them are unresponsive. My other game is to decide if which rider I would pick to kiss if it was my last kiss on earth. Sometimes I don't have very good choices with that game. Or if a person resembled an animal, which one they would be.

I like to see what other people are reading. One Thousand Years of Solitude has been a very popular book on trains I ride. Also The Kite Runner and Absurdistan. Lately, I've noticed a few Atonements (myself being a recent McEwan fan, too, but not because of the film) and some Jane Austen--Northanger Abbey and Emma. Lots of people read The Economist and The New York Times. It makes me happy to see that people on the N-Judah have pretty good taste in their reading material. Once in a while, I'll see someone reading a book that I've never heard of before but looks really interesting and I put it on my mental reading list.

Once in a very great while, you actually strike up a conversation with a fellow traveller. One night, I was on my way home and just finishing the last few pages of Fahrenheit 451. A scruffy young guy--not homeless but definitely wandering--sat next to me, noticed what I was reading, and his face lit up. He said to me, Wow, I remember when I read that book when I was a kid. I really liked it a lot.

I told him the book is still as good as he remembered it (I read it in the 7th grade and again several times years later) and asked him what he likes to read now. He told me that he really didn't buy books anymore (I could have guessed that), but once in a while he goes to the library. I gave him my book and said it's one of those great books that's worth re-reading, but that he had to promise to give it to someone else when he was done with it, because that's the whole point of Fahrenheit 451: Read books and pass 'em on.

He was so happy. It was really cool. That's a little train game I'd like to play again some day.

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Even though it doesn't get the hype that Rear Window, Vertigo or North By Northwest gets, I think Strangers on a Train is one of Alfred Hitchock's great movies. Check it out if you haven't seen it. Robert Walker is really, really creepy in it.