Spirit Concealed In Matter

We thought we were up early. But making our way to the dining room, it was apparent that the good sisters start their day well before we do. Bustling about, each was engaged in some task with great attention but without fanfare. Not a one of them over five feet, they dressed in black but for a splash of white around their faces.

I’ve always appreciated the nuns, having been “raised” by them through the eighth grade. Most likely they have their squabbles, but to a young boy they always appeared to put the other before self.

Pa and I were out the door by mid-morning. Our destination, the Florence of museums, churches, history, and photographs. But as often occurs, there are discoveries along the way.

The dogs and their companion.

The joggers and bicyclists.

The Old Friends,

and the young ones.

Nonno e Nonna.

The second story man,

and the flower people.

The tiny cars,

and the bridges.

The tour groups

and the risk taker.

The artists. . .

The side streets

and the hidden places.

One, in particular, intrigued us.

The workshop of a chemist or, perhaps, an alchemist.

A white coated gentleman welcomed us, then continued his work.

Looking about quietly,

I finally summoned the courage to inquire if, indeed, he was an alchemist.

“Si, naturalmente.”

I asked if he knew of Carl Jung, the Swiss psychiatrist. The name didn’t register. I elaborated, “He wrote extensively about the psychology of alchemy.”

”Si si!”

I then located a quote of Jung’s:

When the alchemist speaks of Mercurius, on the face of it he means quicksilver (mercury), but inwardly he means the world-creating spirit concealed or imprisoned in matter.

Quando l'alchimista parla di Mercurio, a prima vista intende l'argento vivo (mercurio), ma interiormente intende lo spirito creatore del mondo nascosto o imprigionato nella materia.

He studied it carefully, then responded with a big smile, bene molto bene! and returned to his work.

We stayed a few minutes longer before exiting onto the small street which, soon after, opened onto a large plaza and the Basilica di Santa Maria Novella.

We considered John’s Gospel: “And the word became flesh . . . “ and wondered why it was that the Church never tolerated alchemists.

And then the Gospel of Thomas (suppressed by the early Church Fathers) came to mind:

Split a piece of wood: I am there. Lift a stone, and you will find me there.

So Zen like.

After lingering a bit, we began the walk back, enjoying the warm afternoon

and pondering questions interesting and provocative.

“How is that birds know which rock to sit on,

or with whom to mate?”

“And to where might Jesus have traveled after leaving home,

and before going public?”

Tomorrow, the Uffizi.