Tag: portugal

27 seconds. That’s how long the average person stands before a work of art in a museum. Similar to our addictive scrolling through social media, we hurriedly shift to the next image, the next sensation.

27 seconds to experience creations that artists crafted painstakingly with their hearts and souls.

Years ago, I trained to be an educational tour guide at the fabulous Getty Museum in Los Angeles. My personal mission was to slow people down and challenge them to immerse themselves more fully. I even developed a packet that focused on four paintings, asking questions that required thorough concentration and written responses. People told me later that those four images burned vividly in their memories. They carried them away in deeper vaults of consciousness.

The truest test of a teacher’s advice is how we model it in our own lives. I confess that over the years, especially in the busy itineraries of my travels, I too often let my attention skip like a rock rather than sink into the fathoms.

That’s why I sorely needed a placard I saw on a recent trip to Portugal. It hangs in the Capela dos Ossos (Chapel of Bones), Evora, Portugal, a building that stands as an overwhelming memento mori. Franciscan monks decorated it with skulls and other bones of 5,000 people exhumed from local cemeteries in the 1500s. Here are the words on that wall (exactly as printed), attributed to António da Ascenção, a local parish priest of the time.

Where are you going in such a hurry, traveller?
Stop…do not proceed any further.
You have no greater concern,
Then this one: that on which you focus your sight.

Recall how many have passed from this world,
Reflect on your similar end,
There is good reason to reflect
If only all did the same.

Ponder, you so influenced by fate,
Among the many concerns of the world,
So little do you reflect on death;

If by chance you glance at this place,
Stop … For the sake of your journey,
The more you pause, the more you will progress.

Perhaps these truths hit me harder because my firstborn son, Pieter, was recently diagnosed with Stage Four melanoma at age 41. Or perhaps it’s because of tending to my aged parents in their final days. Or maybe it’s simply my own advancing years. As poet Andrew Marvel famously said, but at my back I always hear/Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.

Whatever the antecedent, the admonition in Evora caused me to slow down and savor our moments in Portugal, a trip I shared with my precious wife, Donna. Experiences like these.

• Standing on the cliffs of Cabo da Roca, the westernmost point of Europe. It was cloudy, a stiff wind in my face, the sea angry with whitecaps. I felt in my bones what courage it would have taken for a 15th century mariner to set sail into that vast unknown, what they called the Dark Ocean, most likely the end of the world. I looked down at the rocks below and a tinge of vertigo sparked up my spine.
• Sitting in the Catedral of Evora as their mellifluous choir practiced, letting my eyes drift slowly over the splendor of the chancel, the altar, the stained-glass windows, and the vaulted ceiling with its elaborate paintings. It was ethereal.
• Pausing in the park of the Palace de Pena in Sintra as an incoming storm violently swayed the tops of fifty-foot cypress trees. The rushing wind drew me upwards towards the clouds, and the trees seemed as sentient as Tolkien’s Ents.
• Conversing with an Uber driver who grew up in the country near Serra da Estrela, the highest mountain range in Continental Portugal. His English was good, and he wanted to practice, so he told me about one of his favorite local recipes: stewed pork cheeks. He waxed eloquent about the texture of the meat, then said, “In fact, I bought some last night, and I can’t wait to cook them.” “So,” I replied, “it’s fresh in your mind and in your refrigerator.” His eyes met mine in the rear-view mirror and we both laughed from our bellies.
• Listening to a tram conductor in Lisbon’s Alfama describe the operation of his vehicle. He showed us various brakes, the motor under the floorboard, and a container of sand used to sift onto the tracks for better traction. When he finished, I said, “Driving this trolley is an art!” He clearly appreciated my words, because he stood straighter, smiled broadly, and proudly said, “Yes, it truly is!”
• Hanging out near dusk with hundreds of alfacinhas (residents of Lisbon) where the old stone ship ramp descends into the Tagus River along the Praca do Comercio, Lisbon’s great harbor-facing plaza. Children laughed. Lovers kissed. An old man drew on his cigarette as a young woman played her guitar, the lilting notes lifting into the sky where gulls wheeled in the twilight. A public place to enjoy not only your city, but the company of other human beings, a phenomenon too rare in the US.

More than 27 seconds. Much, much more. And a lesson that I hope will continue to live not only in my life, but also in yours. Let it guide you into the fullness of experiences surrounding you this very moment.

The more you pause, the more you will progress.