Little Things

I once told a group of fellow Loyola students that I could guarantee they would change the world tomorrow, simply by living in it. Our actions, our interactions, the way we build and break relationships, the ways we add or take from the physical beauty of the world all contribute to history, even in the smallest of ways. In the last three months, I have changed Europe. I have participated in its life, and therefore have become part of its story. I mean, no big deal, right?

In a city so big and so jam-packed with the VIPs of the Roman Catholic Church and ancient history, it’s easy to get lost and overwhelmed. I am starting to think of ways I can bring the lessons I’ve learned in Rome home to Baltimore. In Baltimore I can’t go for wandering walks through the city, even at high noon—there aren’t enough churches, a good enough bus system, or enough safe neighborhoods. There aren’t many opportunities to be brave in trying new foods (although I did hear that Primo’s is totally different…) or flying to new countries or even new states. I’m at the point where the churches and frescoes and ruins are starting to run together into a wonderful but indecipherable collage, where I can spend a weekend in another city and say, “It was okay. I didn’t like it as much as I liked _____.” And so this enormous, eternal city is teaching me one of the last things I ever thought it would: to find excitement and beauty and wonder in the small ways I decide to change it.

I lit a candle at Lourdes that was made from the drippings of other candles that had been lit before mine. “The flame continues my prayer,” was printed in countless languages above the weather-resistant candleholders. My flame has certainly been quenched at this point, but I know it will be relit by another faithful person months from now in a new candle that comes from the drippings of my own. The candles get recycled and my prayers never stop flickering heavenwards. That’s cool.

In Prague, after many wrong turns and a walk through brilliant yellow leaves, we six girls finally found the John Lennon wall. Once a memorial to the musician and a small attempt at free speech during the Communist era, the wall still stands today, covered in hopeful graffiti. We scrambled for any kind of writing utensil in our purses muttering, if this were in the States there would be a vending machine on that corner selling Sharpies. I borrowed Bridget’s ballpoint pen to scrawl in small capital letters, “ONE HUMAN FAMILY.” A tiny contribution, but a contribution nonetheless. I don’t know how permanent ballpoint pen ink is, but I like to think that my words will remain there, safe under layers and layers of paint, forever.

A combination of a free Friday, the need to journal, an adventurous spirit and good weather led me to the Villa Borghese two weeks ago. Fall has finally decided to grace Rome with its presence and the leaves were burning just as brightly as my candle in Lourdes. I found a pair of benches in a quiet part of the park and sat down with my red notebook. Like much of Rome, the benches were covered in graffiti about love. “Ti amo” and “Tu sei la persona piu importante della mia vita” marked the benches as a place significant to lovers past. I sat there and enjoyed the leaves and the fresh air by myself, simply happy to be part of Rome, to leave something of myself here, and add to her beauty.