Inside the Holy Sepulchre

Hello friends, something a tad different this week; no haikus, just a daydream prose.

Photo by Mario La Pergola on Unsplash

My footsteps, slow under the burning heat, shuffling along the solid slabs, the pink stones from Bethlehem
sliced into cubes turned into homes
with a cupola for a dome.
I hum, in a quiet whisper, alongside the languorous call to prayer, a sorrowful sound I love and long for, as it peppers each of my days 
alongside the church bells 
and the sun, 
the air heavy with particles of the red sand of nearby deserts. 
The twist of streets and la Via Dolorosa leading the pilgrims furrowed against me in their haste to reach the Holy Sepulchre.

It stands in its robust and Baroque build,
I see the guards and their weapons, in their fatigues, vying for shade.
I step inside the Holy site, touch the damp Stone of Anointing, then walk to the crucifixion: the word Golgotha strikes me as Gothic filled with incantations, 
And I ponder, 
was Jesus really crucified, 
buried and resurrected in this very site...
it has a tangible heartbeat. 
What would he make of the inside of this sanctuary 
split up into an unlikely holy bread, 
the tiny variety shared in Greek orthodox ceremonies.   

I like to quietly step into each of these dissident communities: the Armenians, the Ethiopians, Anglicans and Lutherans; the Greek Orthodox, Syriac and Coptic, I can't recall them all. It's been a tense cohabiting, they try to share the space and breathe in the short supply of oxygen within the cloying incense, 
the sweat,  
the air swollen with the tail end of burnt matches...where else are the same praying candles sold a dozen times, recycled to the very next lot of pilgrims as they're still in sight; each group of three ushered into the cramped cubicle housing relics, their freshly lit candles promptly blown out ready to resell to the next fervent three. Cloaked in monastic black habit, the clergymen walk furtively past me, their long greying beards part in the pious haste, the more shekels in their pocket, the better their longevity. 

I stroll around the heart of the temple turned church, then sepulchre, destroyed and rebuilt through the years.  Constantine, the Crusaders and Salah-Eddin, all that has happened here and all around me has left prints 
and scents 
and souls. I step up, or down into each micro-chapel, trying in vain to remember who's rite it represents.  Some are austere, other showcase a gilded glory, each one attracts a fervent crowd huddled and solemn, 
and I wonder how it feels to have faith.  

Instead I inhale this precious cocoon, and hold  on to the grounding it affords me. 
I know, I have always known how lucky I am to be growing up in this majestic town, this sliced up city of occupied eastern Jerusalem. I treasure each step, each stone sculpted within the same parameter as the one it rests against, its veins twirling into its pale pink fingerprint, melting into the milky whiteness of its chalk.  
I am preparing to leave, this will stretch out for years, locomoting months twining into the next, galloping time I cannot tame.  
I learn instead to inhale each frame.  
I watch how we step away from the scriptures to fan power, how we can't easily see our own darkness, 
but 
from where I stand,
it is all just the same beauty, 
we could live together, 
we could find a way to share without needing more.  We always seem to want more. 
 
I stand alone, watching the rush to piousness as it unfolds all around me.   I walk around a little more, absorbing the Rococo dampness and the blessed water, the heavy scent of rose petals, the delicate orange blossom. 
The heady spoors that will never leave me. My very own Madeleines.

By the corner of the Holy Sepulchre, stands the souk; at the entrance of the dark cobbled paths, the makeshift shop overflowing with lokums (cubes based on a gel of starch, sugar, mastic gum, bergamot orange and pistachios), canaries, and souvenirs from the Holy Land; the blown glass from Hebron, leather sandals, and the rainbow of printed t-shirts (I❤ Jerusalem).  
We just wanted the bird, skittish and bright yellow, he sang with all the grace of his booming heart and strident plumage.  We guarded him fiercely because we loved him, and because he was excessively pricey (as he spoke seven languages.) 

The burning tea in tiny glasses, too sweet, the freshly crushed mint, the food shared, the beaming smiles, the impossible kindness, and the gracious philosophy; things will be fine, God will provide, as I wish I too could believe.  I soak up what I can, the generous humanity, the recipes, the serenity and all the salted seeds.

I am alive and burning in this ancient City, 
I can still feel the dry sun rays and the blinding light;  
the hessian bags full of paprika, cumin, sumac, zahtar and cinnamon, 
the slow happiness of a soup full of languages mostly unknown to me.  
I revisit all of it, it is a vibrant memory, 
it is in here as I inhale, 
and I exhale, 
it holds my soul in a gentle headlock.