Mary Helen Porter

Falling

 

Jack and Jill went up the hill following a chance to redeem.

They did not know what was to come of them so, they climbed and held something oh so

Rare that everyone would see that special being they ought to be.

The boy that followed bared a witness to the flock, along with a lady who spoke in foreigns

Like the love the two tried to show.

 

The Sistine Chapel is famous for it’s ceiling. I’d never been inside a room that was famous for-of all things-it’s ceiling. Correction: the Sistine Chapel is famous for it’s ceiling and it’s walls, but the ceiling is the first thing you look at. Before you see this infamous ceiling you see a ridiculous amount of art in the many galleries leading to the chapel, and try to not develop Stendhal Syndrome - a claimed syndrome of “being overcome by art” by a French author with the pen name, Stendhal. This syndrome is supposedly defined by dizziness, rapid heartbeat, fainting, confusion, and hallucination due to an overexposure to art. Perhaps this is what caused me to fall down the set of stairs when entering the Sistine Chapel; after all, the days before had been filled with trips to Greek museums, historical landmarks, Italian streets, and Florence. Or perhaps it was the ceiling. As you walk into the sacred room, only the sound of tiptoed steps and tears sliding down your sweaty cheek are heard. A pen wouldn’t even dare to drop. A security guard motions for you to keep walking away from the entrance and away from Michelangelo's The Last Judgement. Instead of searching for the punish-y Cardinal Carafa, a objector to Michelangelo’s nude subjects, you gazed upon the ceiling. Your neck arches back, your mouth slowly opens downward, and your eyes and mind do not resonate. Your mind has to tell your eyes, “You are looking at the creation story. Remember, that story from the bible in Genesis? Yeah, that’s it on the ceiling. It’s breath taking-oh remember to breathe! Right foot forward. Left. Where is the ground? Oh shit.” You find yourself tumbling downward. You catch yourself and snap back to the reality of earth and gravity. Even though it looks like it, you’re not in heaven yet. “Oh God,” you say, “I’m okay.” This is your second mistake. A guard helps you up, whispers for you to be quiet, and your cheeks turn a shade of pink that matches the sweater you are wearing. You look at the ceiling again and forget about your unique embarrassing moment. You come to the center of the room. You see the Creation of Adam and analyze the way the fingers of God and Adam almost touch. You relate it to a feeling you have. You’re not sure it’s love, but you know it’s happiness. You think you’re on the verge of meeting something amazing, holy, but you don’t think you’ll figure it out until it’s too late. And you don’t.

 

They didn't even notice the mountains that blocked the source of time and their lifelines.

Things got smaller and the cave they entered was a journey of black and rock.

Paths were parted and moments became somethings that were to be started.

As the giants left, maybe they were wrong, but their climb was the most special of all.

It was all fun and games till they found their way scrambling down.

A drop seeming impossible, much like the possible that they dreamed to see.

 

I held the umbrella and felt everyone’s body huddled around me. After a lonely winter it was nice to be surrounded by people that were enduring the same storm. The storm was furious. Wind was blowing our umbrellas into discombobulated shapes and the rain shot down from the sky like bullets. My shoes were soaked and my hair was dripping from the water. I laughed out of sheer oddity. We were stuck stationary in a rain storm in Florence. I was starting to fall in love. I fell in love with the whole idea of it. I told Johamy later that I knew I was in love when the rain didn’t bother me. The rain didn’t just not bother me, I loved it. I danced in it and it was completely cheche. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want to leave. Only one day in a city that you felt was more like home than home itself? I didn’t know the language, the currency conversion, or where I was, but I did know that I was falling in love.

 

She held onto a stone that fell just so, a tree of life and a home to the one that would sting-

A bee. A bee. He did not know the danger a sting would be.

She screamed. He beamed. The other two struggled to see.

And they all hoped they wouldn't fall.

 

Why do we call it falling in love? Is it because in most cases we don’t realize the impact someone or something might have on us, so we don’t pay much attention to the force that causes us to jump? One of Newton’s laws states: “Every object persists in its state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed on it.” So in other words, something will not move-or keep going about its business-until something else causes it to change its direction or velocity. Something must cause the fall, but we never pay attention to that force. Maybe for me it was the cobble stone, the rain, a person, a feeling, a smell, a taste, a wish, a conversation, a moment. Maybe it was all those things that caused me to jump, but I didn’t pay attention. I jumped and fell and I don’t know the cause of it. I wasn’t paying attention and I slipped and it is killing me to know that I slipped and wasn’t paying attention. I do not have a name for the force.

 

Later on, the fall they saw become one they were to follow.

Jack showed the way, holding Jills hand and in the other, his crown so they would not break.

He helped her through even though he knew she was the wrong “she” to plead.

She begged him not to go, but they had to so they would not run out of light.

 

On my trip I got to know a girl named Ximena. She plays violin and so happened to sign up for a trip to Greece and Italy like I did. On a peculiar overnight boat ride from Greece to Italy we had our first substantial conversation. It involved a discussion of art, love, and psychology-three things that we soon came to the conclusion were very much related. I later asked Ximena what she thought art was, and she gave me an answer one might not first think about. After spending two weeks where classical art forms had been honed and perfected, one would expect her to answer in a more technical matter. But you see, art is not technical. Art is art and technique is technique and Ximena finds art more sentimental. Art allows her to communicate to an audience and allows them to understand what she feels. And without communication, how can we as humans be fulfilled? Yes, there are the introverted and extroverted, but don’t we all want to know that someone cares enough to interact with us?

 

It was kind of like falling. When I first met these people, I did not think they would majorly impact me. I wasn’t aware of what was happening those first few days in Europe. I took pictures and constantly felt like I was being better educated, but I didn’t really pay attention the people around me. Isolated on the boat, we talked a lot about processing. We were processing everything we saw, everything we knew, everything we felt, everything we were about to see, learn, and feel. I think that was when I realized I was falling. I had relaxed-something that isn’t easy for me-and I started to become more myself. I let others impact my emotions and ideas, and I soon found myself craving more connections. This was where I’d laugh for no reason. This was where I hated my introverted self. This was where I knew I needed to make a change. This was where I did. This was where I realized I was falling.

 

He jumped and raised his arm, ready to catch her from afar.

She jumped, he caught, the two held each other as one,

They could not let go for their life had been changed so,

Like a future they could not unsee.

 

The day after I left the Vatican City, much to my very republican parents’ relief, President Obama met Pope Francis for the first time. Obama presented the holy leader with a box of seeds resembling a new start and simultaneous growth in two different directions. Don’t get me wrong the two leaders definitely have similar goals, but there is always a nay to a yay and an argument to an agreement. How those yays and nays coexist is what I find so intriguing. In the art galleries leading up to the Sistine Chapel there are various collections of christian artwork as well as pagan works. At a certain time in history most would agree that the two different beliefs had nothing in common, but they did coexist in a manner that impacted one another. In the halls before the sacred chapel this is shown. Whether an artist’s goal was to perfect their skill of figure or they wanted to renovate the already constructed work of art, their paganistic quality would eventually be sitting next to a room filled with biblically painted walls. In a similarly beautiful way, the Pope and the President do coexist and grow beside each other. Maybe their coexistion will grow to be more than just coexistion. What if having similar goals leads to something more than just being on good terms? What if the two powerful leaders found themselves falling into a relationship of success and well being? The optimist would believe so, and most days I like to tell myself that I am one of these types of people, but if I am honest I know that there is always a darker side to falling.

 

They held each other’s hand and refused to part,

Chasing sunsets, they planned their lie to hide the truth that was held inside.

Through thorns and leaves and daisies and sighs,

They found themselves trapped in Pan’s favorite town of Delphi streets,

Winding their needs to reach a conclusion they both wanted to seek.

 

The last night in Europe was spent in Roman streets. I’d already fallen in love with Florence, but I fell in love with the people that surrounded me in Rome. I doodled on the brown paper that covered the table alongside two other proclaimed ‘artists’. The boy beside me drew a very abstract figure drawing of me, and proved that two weeks in rich visual art culture can’t magically make you Michelangelo. We left and ran in the rain to the Spanish Steps. We counted all hundred and thirty five steps and sang “This Is What Dreams Are Made Of” when we reached the top. One of the more experimental girls in our group responded to a street vendor-who was selling roses for ten euros-with a mixture of a growl and a scream and the word, “NO,” while moving her arms in a unique waving motion. Needless to say, the man was taken aback. Everything was funny. Europe intoxicated me. I believe I kept repeating, “I’m in love with this!” every time I took a moment to take it all in. We skipped down the slippery steps, this time to my surprise not falling. We moved on to the Trevi Fountain where all of my heartache began.

 

The first toss meant that you would come back. The second meant that you would fall in love. The third meant you would marry that true love you find. It was a fairytale. At that moment there was nothing more important than those three tosses. I had to do it right. Coin in my right hand and thrown over my left shoulder: those were the steps. The three euros had to fall just right. Nothing else mattered. I stood next to Ximena and threw my coin on the count of three. We both wanted to come back to study abroad and fall in love so we thought it would be fitting to throw the first coin together. The second and third I did alone. “For true love,” I said and threw. Falling. I caused the fall, or did I not? I threw the euro so I caused it. I caused myself to bank on superstition. Then I threw the last coin and it was over. As we took pictures-hugging each other with wide eyes and open smiles-I felt that undenying feeling of heartbreak and anticipation. This moment would never again be repeated. I would never have as much hope for a perfect, fairytale, cliche future as I did with those people in that place. I was falling.

 

“What happens in Europe can’t stay in Europe, okay?” I told everyone on our way to the airport in Rome. I was made promises that weren’t to be kept and I knew that before I even presented my question. As soon as we threw our last coin into the fountain we all knew that we were about to hit the surface of stone. We were falling through the water. The airport acted as a buffer, we were preparing ourselves. We landed, hitting the ground hard, and many rushed off to confirm their false promise. I stayed and waited to say goodbye to everyone because I still was telling myself that hope remained, and part of it did. I still have the memories and photographs hidden in my heart. And I have to be okay with the small, barely noticeable smiles that several of us pass as if saying, “Hey do you remember…” And I still fall. I fell off my bike and I laughed because it was because of a patch of dirt and not because of the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. I still fall, and fall, and fall in love with random aspects of life. We don’t ever really stop falling, and it’s not an action we can really control. All we can do is accept it.

 

But as they came away so, beaten and soon at the close,

Jack put his head down, and broke his crown

And Jill came

                                falling

            soon

after.