Bittersweet, Notes From Istanbul

Note: This was written in September of 2007

Yesterday, on my way to Sultanhamet, I crossed the Galata Bridge, over the Golden Horn, looking out on the wine-dark sea of the Bosporus. The sky was mirror to the sea, cloudless and blue as far as one could see; in the water rose the Bosporus Bridge — oh what Darius would have given for a bridge such as it — and ferries, fishing boats and container ships moved like a symphony written on water. It really isn't until you are here, looking out at the harbor and around the straits that you realize just how strategic Istanbul remains.

But strategy and politics were far from my mind yesterday as I sped across the bridge. The sights were intoxicating. I luxuriated in the travelers sense of 'seeing' of being a part of something a little bigger than myself, of doing what so few others every really do. Considering the recent past, I felt liberated from the stultifying expectations of home, at last. Plus, my muse was waiting.

She sits at the highest point in Sultanhamet, the Hagia Sophia, glaring at the Blue mosque — interloper that he is — she defies time. She, this church, was built while the emperor Justinian reigned in the 6^th century and remains the most splendid architectural achievement I've ever seen — and I have looked upon more than my fair share.

But seeing her is always bittersweet. No longer a church, her stones, pillars and piers have forgotten the silences of holy places. They've lost the memory of the sacred. And this is a pity.

But then, standing under the huge, semi-flat dome, gazing at the massive pendentives that allow a circle to be supported by a square I am in awe. Chills run up and down my spine as I shudder in gratitude. If but to see, not once, but anytime I wish? I should be so lucky.

After the personal vicissitudes of the last several months I never thought I'd have the chance to live in such a place. For that and for finding my muse once again, I am truly grateful.

Of course there is more to the story. As I walked back down the hill towards the Galata Bridge and Beyoglu I stopped at the ferry docks, snacked on a fresh grilled sardine sandwich. I watched old men fish, boys bait the hooks and the ferries come in and out, emptying and filling back up. Some on their way to Asia — just across the straits, yeah, it is funny to write that — others heading to Karakoy. And me? I walked.

I climbed the stairs to the bridge lighthearted, took a few photos of men fishing, with the Turkish flag behind them and then it hit me. A deep sense of grief and loss, myriad losses no less: loss of home, family, wife, pets, and a thousand other annoying but oh so comfortable habits. In that golden sunlight, on an Istanbul September day I grieved once more the life I left behind. Not that I want to go back but just because; sometimes we have to grieve and t''s not in our power to know when it will start or end. It just is.

Then the words of a Guy Forsyth song bounced around between my ears, 'can you live without?'

Yes, I can, but the hardest part, and the highest price, is knowing I can't make someone love me.

So, I turned around and looked at her, my muse. So proud, so strong, so timeless. I don't know if anyone has ever said there is luck in grief, but there is. Today proves it.