Forbidden City

Landmarks

If ever there was a palace that deserved the name of a prison,

it is that palace in the Forbidden City. - Reginald Johnston

Sweet Forbidden.

For almost 500 years, the Forbidden City in Beijing, China served as the home of emperors and their household as well as the ceremonial and political center of  government. It was so-called because no one could enter or leave the palace without the emperor's permission, and also because ordinary people had to be authorized for entry.

Today it is no longer forbidden, as it has been transformed into a public museum, and I'm one of the hundreds of wide-eyed spectators who are stepping onto its threshhold.

As I eagerly glance inside, I see the light breaking through. I shade my eyes with my hands as I study the replica of the Purple Palace where the Celestial Emperor was thought to live in Heaven. It is enclosed by a 33-foot high wall, heavily guarded in the past at each corner with a magnificent watchtower.

A complex with over 180 acres, 980 buildings, 90 palaces and courtyards, and 8,704 rooms! I let out a gusty sigh.

From across an expansive brick-paved square, I reach the Meridian Gate which is the main entrance to the palace. Proceeding to the Golden Stream Bridge onto the outer court, I pass through the hall of Preserving Harmony.

I keep wondering, Can it really impart inner serenity?

I raise my eyebrows quizzically, but there is no time to test its claim. Out the hall and straight ahead, I spot the Gate of Heavenly Peace, the main passage to the inner living court and the emperor and concubines' sleeping quarters. 

So magnificent.

And yet a hollow feeling hits me. The emperor could not leave the palace grounds without an official escort and usually not unless it was to attend an official function or to travel to another palace. Being female, the empresses and concubines led even more sheltered lives because they could not be seen by any males outside the immediate family circle.

How like a cage it must have felt to them, I mumble with a heavy sigh.

With a wry smile, I contemplate how their hearts must have been heavy hidden behind these walls. So painfully, so suffocatingly small.

My voice falls as I mutter. Imagine being kept under scrutiny from the moment they rose to the moment they retired for the night. They must have slept deeply, but without dreams.

From behind the Imperial Garden, I exit through the Gate of Divine Might.­­­ I open the door a crack and gaze yearningly beyond. For me, all of the morning's buoyancy has faded. I feel a slow but familiar sinking feeling of having seen one of the saddest places ever. 

I turn away, leaving my  bitter-sweet memory to haunt the soft, diffused light of a celestial sky.

Taj Mahal

Landmarks

Let the splendor of diamond, pearl, and ruby vanish
like the magic shimmer of the rainbow.

Only let this one teardrop, this Taj Mahal, glisten spotlessly bright

on the cheek of time, forever and ever.- Tagore

It is a gorgeous, breezy day in Agra, India. The sky overhead is a deep, cloudless blue, a child's crayon drawing of heaven.

Where I'm standing, clustered amid the endless bustle of tourists and local folk, the air is electric. Everywhere I look, people are wide-eyed and animated. The atmosphere is joyous, alive with individuals crammed into a very long line headed toward the Taj Mahal, also known in Persian as 'crown of Mahal.'

A love poem in marble. The teardrop on the cheek of time. I whisper the appellation in a tender voice. It sounds like a caress in itself.

I keep thinking of Mumtaz, the emperor's favorite wife, declaring with pitiful dignity her wish to be entombed in a crypt that will make her immortal even past her death. I reflect on how after she dies giving birth to their fourteenth child, the heartbroken Shah promises that he will build her a marble mausoleum resembling paradise.

How elaborate can a final resting place be? Built on 42 acres, including a mosque. A guest house is surrounded on three sides by medieval-style walls on top of which are rectangular spaces through which arrows or other weaponry may be shot. I turn the words over in my mouth as if they were hard candy. In all honesty, I marvel at how a piece of architecture can embody love's passion to such heights and take twenty-two years and twenty thousand workers to complete.

As I survey the complex, I'm immediately captivated by the mirror-image of the ivory-white edifice reflected on the long rectangular pool. I look up to capture the details of the gardens and wide marble verandas. Light is flooding the impressive dome and the four minarets, elegant as a swan's neck, that frame it.

The relentless press of bodies continues, but the mood is congenial. We surge forward as the line inches along, and then stop again. I wait, sighing, my palms on the balustrade behind me. Finally stepping onto an arched balcony, I can see intricate floral patterns and geometric designs inside and outside standing out in glittering focus. They're inlaid with precious stones, I comment in admiration.

I glance at the fluctuating light reflected from the building. Delicate, elaborate hand-carved screens from single slabs of marble adorn windows and doors. We continue on. The place is packed. No matter which way I go, I always seem to be fighting against a tide of bodies. 

Finally, we come to a stop as we pass into the area where the bodies of the emperor and his wife lie in the vault below. The noise has quieted down in a simmering silence of deep, timeless peace as we gaze through a filigree screen that has been set up as a veil around the royal tombs. 

My chest constricts at the sweetness of that captured moment. Like a salmon swimming against the tide, I immediately push my way down the dome-shaped chhatri pavilion. 

I step outside to take a fresh breath of air in what feels like forever. 

Sydney Opera House

Landmarks

The sun did not know how beautiful its light was, 

until it was reflected off this building. - Louis Kahn

The sky is clean and upbeat, sunny as ever. We're in Australia, headed to the Sydney Opera House to purchase tickets for the evening performance of Mozart's Le nozze di Figaro (Marriage of Figaro).

I lift my chin, dazzled by unexpected brightness. I spot a large, white sculpture looming in the harbor, catching and mirroring the sky in all its varied lights. I'm impressed.

Its white shell-shaped roof tiles give the feeling of moving upwards, soaring with sails, I note with obvious appreciation. I take a deep breath and exhale. I want to appear keen, alert to nuances.

All around and below the iconic structure's massive red granite platform, circles of sunlight dapple the rushing waters of Bennelong Point.  

Then all at once, in a dizzying moment, I feel the heat as the sun rises higher and higher and higher still, straight, straight up. I stop to catch my breath. The iconic edifice is so full of radiance that I imagine the people coming around as if they were in the negative of photos - gray, with white features.

A fresh breeze blows in over the shore of Sydney Harbor. The day gleaming with a golden luminosity looks like it had been stolen from a place of darkness.

Entra Figaro. I can see him in my mind's eye. My heart is suddenly full of song. 

Cantante. His voice will peal like a glass bell through the warm summer day.

La, la, la, la, la, la!

UP

Landmarks

Until you spread your wings,
you will have no idea how far you can fly. - Unknown

I turn aside, peering out the bus window for a view of the two-lane University Avenue. The morning air is cool and crisp. I look at my watch. I should arrive in plenty of time for my 7:30 English class, I croon, my hands clasped prayerfully.

It's my first day as a freshman at the prestigious University of the Philippines. I draw a long breath, with a mixed feeling of pride and trepidation. It's Yupee, as Mummie says, stretching the words out, pronouncing each syllable with emphasis.

Top university, I whisper loudly to myself, in fair imitation of her voice. I try to be as nonchalant as possible even as I ruminate on how through the years, UP has produced an impressive number of the nation's presidents, political leaders, national artists, scientists, and other trail blazers who have shaped the country's history. 

At the end of the avenue, I see it, the monument and main symbol of the university. I yell cheerily, The Oblation! 

It's an eleven-and-a-half foot tall concrete sculpture of a man with outstretched arms and open hands in a forward stance of selfless dedication and service, tilted head, closed eyes, and parted lips murmuring what must be a prayer. He's naked, I whisper to myself bashfully. 

Closer up, I'm able to notice details that ordinarily will have escaped me - the soft, misty halo around the figure's bronze coloration and the rustic base on which it stands, a stylized rugged shape of my homeland archipelago, lined with big and small rocks, each of which represents an island. Actually, he's not starkly nude, I quickly correct myself as I spot the discreet fig leaf that covers his manhood. I smile sheepishly. 

Behind the Oblation, prisms of light in the east, the color of lemonade, are just beginning to poke through the huge pillars of Quezon Hall. The latter's open portico provides a view of the buildings beyond. I was just here a few days ago, I remind myself modestly, remembering how I traversed the suspended veranda that spans the north and south wings of the structure to have the registrar stamp 'Entrance Scholar' on my enrollment form. 

From this center front of the campus, the road turns on either side. Tall tamarind trees line the streets, their branches sometimes converging over like a canopy. As the bus loops around, time stretches out toward me. Everything seems big and slow. My eyes bug out in astonishment at the sight of 1,220 acres of infrastructure and colleges, two convocation halls, a carillon tower, a bowling hall, an A&W drive-in, barber shop, infirmary, two churches, several dormitories, the so-called Lovers' Lane walkway on a sunken lawn, the President's house, and faculty residential cottages - all in a forested setting.

So huge, I brightly comment. The woman seated beside me smiles at my eagerness. My gaze is lost in the immensity of the place and its sorcery of light.

The bus driver suddenly darts his head forward as he announces with flourish, Pavilion Four! I repeat happily, Pavilion Four, gesturing with my forefinger. Para! I summon the driver to stop. 

I cross the street toward the Arts and Sciences Building. I try to make my mind blank. I venture to imagine myself high, my senses light and soaring.

As I go up the fourth floor to my first class on my first day in the university, I feel my feet sprouting wings. 

On The Road To Emmaus

Coda: Walk Softly

Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis. - Paula Hawkins

We're on our way, about seven miles from Jerusalem, to a village called Emmaus, the site of one of the most touching of Christ's resurrection appearances. The warmth of the sun holds me up. A desert lark roosting on the black mulberry seems to chide me for being pensive. I'm as downcast as the two disciples traveling across the beaten, worn-out path.

So, is this truly The Road? I ask myself. I've learned as much that historians have been unable to identify the site with certainty.

We walk softly a short distance on the sandy road. I keep waiting for an act of God, perhaps a flash of lightning, after which a man will join us, the resurrected Jesus, but we will not recognize Him. He will ask us, What is this conversation that you are holding with each other as you walk? 

I'll proceed to tell the stranger of Jesus’ crucifixion and the report of His empty tomb, to which he will respond, How foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! 

That's when our Palestinian guide stops to point, Sham. There!

I see a rock. Everyone comes to a stop on the path and stands in unnatural silence. I've wondered if they were all holding their breath, as I am doing. Behold upon the mountains the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace. This is where Jesus will take us through the writings of Moses and the prophets, explaining from scripture the things concerning Himself. Our eyes of faith will open and we'll recognize Him. 

I stay as still as a statue, closing my eyes to a squint. Aren't our hearts burning within us while He talks? I cannot bear to disturb the sensation of peace and completeness that has enveloped me. I am comforted. I am gentled. 

It feels like nothing and everything. The sky is ablaze in colors of red. It is bright. I can smell hope. The future with its infinite promise looms like the first Easter morning. 

It is true. The Lord has risen.

Long Time Passing

Walk Softly

Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?

Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago? - Song Lyrics 

The sun is disappearing behind the roof of the string of houses in the city. I'm back home after a summer vacation at the farm. It is quiet. Even the wind has stopped its teasing gust.  

As the remaining rays of light retreat from the scene, I recall my endless, golden days of play.

We flew through the door like sun rays to traipse onto pilapil footpaths criss-crossing the paddies and the world would, for a heartbeat, seem perfect. We raced barefoot behind the bamboo grove, huffing at a scurrying iridescent beetle. We ate green mangoes, sucked on impossibly seductive guavas bursting in little explosions of flavor in our mouth. We taunted the grumpy water buffalo slouched in the same position as the previous day under the sampaloc tree. 

I don't know what to make of the wave of nostalgia that has overcome me. I long for the wide, open plains, the swaying talahib grasses and ripening grain of summer. I yearn for the guttural call of wild pigeons, the wind off the rice fields smelling of nothing but earth. I miss teasing the bashful makahiya. I miss the smell of flowers in Aling Pining's garden. I miss being beholden to the nuno. I miss my dreams, even if they are only of quiet darkness.

Evening has set in, a welcome pause when everything hangs suspended under the canopy of a star-freckled sky. I can imagine the moon shining over Bashful Lane. It sparkles on Old Man's Mound and is blessing the four o'clock flowers, now dozing, their black seeds secure. 

My head is heavy; my eyelids, too, so I lie down on the pillow and close my eyes. Sleep comes at me like an inky wave. I resist it for a moment, then let it draw me under.

 I miss myself.

By Old Man's Mound

Walk Softly

At the end of the day, your feet should be dirty,

your hair messy, and your eyes sparkling. - Shanti

We're headed toward the rivulet in search of the fiercest eight-legged, poison-fanged gagamba spiders for the afternoon's tournament fight. Come on! Cousin Emy says brightly. 

The path by the bamboo grove is guarded by speaking owls. Don't you get distracted by them, he warns, staring straight ahead. The loam earth beneath my feet is rich, almost quivering with life. We're taking advantage of the last of the sunshine before getting called in for dinner. 

Nuno! Cousin Timan says cautiously. In local mythology, nuno is an old, dwarf-like man who is believed to live in an anthill mound. Because he is easily angered and will do harm to those who disturb his habitation, children are warned to ask permission before passing by. 

We walk softly. Gravely and with considerable respect to the invisible keeper of the small hill, we recite the requisite words, Tabi tabi po. Excuse us, please. After a short pause, as though hearing a response, we express our gratitude, Salamat po!

We scurry on to the tall reed grasses by the woody thicket where we capture our prized critters. 

Let's go back! I rally without hesitation. We quickly pass by Old Man's Mound, remembering to ask for safe passage once more.

A clear sky has given us a final orgy of play. Although my spider lost, I still have managed the widest grin with the confidence of a commander who has lost the day's battle but fully expects a victory the next time around.

Today has been good, today is fun, tomorrow is another one.