Delights: July 31 to August 6

July 31: Thanks to a wonderful newsletter that arrives in my inbox each week, I learned about The Last Museum. In the words of Melissa Kirsch, “The Last Museum is a free, searchable archive of 5.8 million artworks spanning centuries and continents, institutions large and small, the world over. The site uses semantic search, which means you can seek out certain subjects, styles or vibes in addition to looking for specific artists or titles.”

Inspired by the popular Edward Hopper piece I posted a few weeks ago, I searched for “gas stations” among the site’s archives. Hopper’s Gas popped right up, along with dozens of other depictions of this roadside ubiquity.

Oh my goodness. I can see myself getting lost for hours in these halls, equipped with comfy slippers and a cup of tea. But I bet I’ll still want to see art in buildings too.

Bonus: The newsletter I mentioned is called The Good List, hosted by Melissa Kirsch for the New York Times. Its tagline says it’s a “weekly inventory of ideas, rituals and cultural artifacts to add joy to your days.” Any wonder why I enjoy it? (And a shoutout to Allison, who not only told me about the newsletter but also kept forwarding it to me until I finally figured out how to get it myself.)

August 1: Speaking of art museums, don’t forget — dear self — the creativity expressed in architecture, landscapes and public art. And how about bundling all three and adding a dollop of astronomy?

I’m not talking about “Star Axis,” the mesa masterpiece by Charles Ross we’ve been hearing about. Instead, I’m talking about Dark Star Park, by Nancy Holt.

The spheres, rods and tunnels of Dark Star Park arrived in Virginia around the same time I did, in 1984. Yet I’d never seen the moment when the park fulfilled its annual, fleeting celestial destiny: Every year on August 1 at approximately 9:32 a.m., the shadows cast by a set of steel rods align perfectly with a set of steel “shadows” embedded in the pavement.

Today, on a partly cloudy morning, about 150 people ringed the rods-and-spheres portion of the park to witness this event. A food truck sold pastries and coffee, while an amateur astronomer aimed her carefully filtered telescope at the sun and invited passersby to count sunspots. Children sat at the feet of adults and everyone rooted for a right-timed break in the clouds.

The moment arrived and we cheered as the rod’s shadow disappeared into the black steel.

I find myself delighting in the artist’s careful planning and Arlington County’s decision decades ago to commission this public artwork. When it was conceived in 1979, Dark Star Park was one of the nation’s earliest examples of sculpture, landscape, architecture and the surrounding environment all functioning as a single work of art. 

I also appreciate how pretty the shadows are when they’re not aligned with their steel counterparts. Until now, I hadn’t considered an outdoor sculpture’s shadow as part of its composition. At Dark Star Park, the shadows’ momentary “disappearance” is celebrated each year, but anytime the sun is shining I can see the rest of Holt’s composition — and it will be a different work of art every time I look.

Bonus: At Dark Star Park, the diameter of each sphere is pierced by a hole. The park also includes a short pedestrian tunnel. I like to imagine a giant child rolling the spheres through the tunnel and stacking the spheres onto the rods. The entire park is a child’s toy, seen in the right light.

August 3: I rumbled down a narrow gravel road praying that no car would approach me. (The zippy speed limit was meant for someone else.) The occasional farmhouse or cattle gate interrupted the country wilderness on either side. A turn in the road: mountains. Another turn: pavement. I had reached Holy Cross Abbey.

Although the mile-long access road invited speed, I had already mellowed into the spirit of my Gregorian Chant retreat. I continued to creep along. Soon, a whimsical sign of a robed Trappist monk pointing right gestured me toward the Retreat House. A real-life monk welcomed me cheerfully and the registrant, Lydia, hearing my name, greeted me with her clip board. How was your drive, she asked. “Well, the gravel road —” Lydia interrupted, incredulous. She assured me that the Abbey can be reached via asphalt all the way and apologized repeatedly.

That’s ok, I replied. Slowing down will be one of my retreat goals, so why not a little gravel to remind me? 

August 3: In our welcome circle this evening, I learned that my twelve fellow retreatants hail from Maryland, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, North Carolina, Ohio and Kentucky. I learned that this Gregorian Chant “Schola” is a destination retreat and that our director is a master in his field. I learned that most of my companions sing, read music and perform regularly.

My companions, in turn, learned that I don’t sing. They learned that I don’t read music. And they learned that our director welcomed me anyway. (“I like your enthusiasm,” my new friend Marcy said.)

Before dinner, our director coached us in our first Gregorian chant. The voices around me rose in heavenly sound. Ah, no, our director said. Softer, softer. Sotto voce. You should not hear yourself sing. 

Maybe I do belong here.

August 4: It’s 3:30 a.m. Do you know where your mother is?

This mother is sitting in the pews of the chapel of Holy Cross Abbey experiencing her first Liturgy of the Hours. I had left the retreat house around 3:10 am, equipped with a flashlight and (confession) more curiosity than piety. I’d taken the ten-minute walk twice before (5:30 pm Vespers and 7:30 pm Compline), so I knew my way along that delightful pavement.

Praying — in the form of wonderment — began as soon as I stepped outside. Even in a partly cloudy sky I saw constellations I couldn’t name and, after I switched off the flashlight, my own moon shadow. I walked slowly in the not-darkness and listened to the crickets and tree frogs. I stopped at a lighted shrine I hadn’t noticed in daylight and eventually made my way into the darkened chapel.

Like Vespers and Compline, 3:30 a.m. Vigils consisted of Psalms and a reading from the Hebrew Bible. Unlike Vespers and Compline, the monks recited the Psalms instead of chanting them, entered into periods of silence, and read aloud a theologian’s reflection. 

Also unlike Vespers and Compline (which clocked in at around 20 minutes), Vigils lasted for nearly 40 minutes. What else is there to do before dawn except pray?

Well, maybe sleep. So, I’ll rinse my tea cup, close my laptop and collapse back into bed — until the Liturgy of the Hours resumes again at 7 am (Lauds). My day shadow and I will be there.

August 4, 7:00 am: As I walked to Lauds, I cast my eyes down rather than up. I saw far-flung morning fog resting heavily on the meadow. I saw tiny purple trumpet-shaped blooms, still furled, asleep in the dew. I saw a hillock of neat white crosses, the resting place of earlier monks.

I entered the chapel and settled into what has become my pew. Eyes closed and upright, I lost myself in the psalms of praise greeting the day. I finally took my seat. At that moment, the sun — as though orchestrated by Nancy Holt — moved into a narrow triangular gap between roof and chimney and flooded me with light. My head and shoulders cast a silhouette on the wall, and I felt doubly blessed.

Bonus: Earlier this morning, after Vigils but before returning to bed, I read a bit more about the Liturgy of the Hours. Coincidentally, I had circled this passage about Lauds: “The tone of our prayer turns from the leisurely musing of Matins [Vigils] to the glad acclamations of praise that are our spontaneous response to great light breaking out of overwhelming darkness.” 

August 4 (Gregorian Chant Schola): Singing Gregorian Chant is breaking my brain. The Latin is sometimes hard to pronounce and, when I find courage to sing, I choose very low notes. (I’ve taken to hiding behind sotto voce or just plain silence.)  

The singers have adopted me, hapless puppy that I am. On the first morning, I found myself flailing between two gifted sopranos. Taking pity on me, one gently suggested that I sit next to Nick, a baritone across the room. Nick kindly allowed me to hitch my wobbly wagon to his thoroughbred and sang a solo for me during break. Pam asked our director to slow down a bit. Leah said she envied me, eyes closed, listening blissfully. Grant assured me that he, too, learned best in little chunks.

My goal is to learn one pithy chant that I can sing quietly to myself, maybe on my way to a pre-dawn appointment. (Guess which part of that will be easier.)

P.S. This is one of the scary chants. So many notes!

August 5: I loitered in front of the chapel this evening until driven indoors by the monks’ honey bees. Adjacent to the chapel are their hives, labeled “Ophelia,” “Abigail,” “Cordelia” and “Rita.” Adjacent to the dining room toaster is their honey. Adjacent to my suitcase is a tote bag filled with gift shop goodies, including a jar of “creamed honey” made with brandy. And adjacent to my tote bag is an empty space waiting for a bit of netting, so that I can once again sit among the bees.

Bonus: Regarding Gregorian Chant, it appears — with the right words, the right notes and the right privacy — I sound pretty good. I had recorded a snippet of myself chanting, as a prompt for some future walking meditation, and I just listened to it. I think I have achieved nine seconds of “good enough,” and that, simply put, is everything.

August 6: Jeremiah is Brooklyn bound! Classes at Stony Brook University begin in three weeks; unpacking begins now. While participating in classes and workshops in pursuit of a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing, Jeremiah will also serve as a Graduate Assistant and an associate editor of The Southampton Review. 

He tells me he’s looking forward to all of that — along with exploring Prospect Park, eating the best bagels in New York City, and mastering the art of moving his car twice-weekly when the street sweeper comes along. 

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