After this Coventry Cathedral in England was bombed in WWII, the shell was left. The brand new cathedral, thanks to the efforts of many countries, is attached and grows forth from the old. Here is an image of BOTH the shell of the bombed cathedral AND the new building—together. Is this not an image of how we ALL must behave NOW?
The profound influence of immediate surroundings is NOT something we notice much. We are too busy obsessing, squawking, arguing, or moaning about “climate change” on a large scale that we miss the impact of our more subtle surroundings.
By habit we jump first to the weather report. Will it be too warm, too cold, below freezing, sunny, wet, on and on? All of it short-term and shallow—surface palaver.
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Last evening we saw on television a brief special about how immediate surroundings affect conversation, mood, comfort levels, decisions, even outcomes. Some alert women noticed that controversial board meetings about expenses or future survival, or costs/benefit analyses, and the like went more smoothly, efficiently with fewer arguments and more clarity of agenda, purpose and outcome when the group met at a local Museum of Art. When surveyed, others in the group agreed. Why?
I have long thought that The Arts could heal/save the world. ALL the arts: music, dance, theater, painting, graphics, literature, poetry, even nature and, yes, even business, politics and governance—the art of respectful listening more than talking. ADD the creative drama of Nature itself!
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When you enter a library filled with shelves of books, do you suddenly quiet yourself, hush noisy children, relax? Few have ever violated the sanctity of a library.
If you go to a huge concert hall or a large theater, even a movie theater, does it immediately hush your soul? Open your heart, make ready your soul?
Or a hospital, the sanctuary of vulnerability where sorrow and healing and love hover all about together creating the climate and fabric of the place. How about any religious sanctuaries— church/temple, cathedral, mosque where murmurs of prayers for peace and echoes of joy from live choirs linger. You can hear all this even though you were not or are not present. You just know.
I recall the near panic, alongside bold, broad public mourning, that accompanied the collapse of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. A world shuddered, and lots of money poured in for its reconstruction. Few people worship there any more, and yet it drew the hearts of thousands worldwide.
How about a planetarium? When you gaze at the stars all twinkling far above you, do you gasp with awe, even weep? Or a cemetery, the collective dead gathered? Woods. Gardens or Greenhouses. Swooping birds and squirrels build nests I see from my window.
I even recall the awe of the first huge lecture hall at the divinity school that caught and held my breath, as if Divinity itself gave weighty lectures that lingered there.
Perhaps so.
