Raise a Glass to Old Italian Churches

Here's where I go for a little writerly inspiration.

The lushness of Amelia Cathedral in Umbria.

When I go to a party, which isn’t too often on account of, you know, hives, people will often ask what I, as a writer, do for inspiration. This question is put to many novelists, although for anyone writing against a deadline, inspiration isn’t always an option.

To tell you the truth, it’s fear that keeps me honest. Fear and some very bourgeoise notions about responsibility, punctuality, and being a good soldier.

Any writer who says she’d rather be writing than eating popcorn and enjoying a Netflix binge, however, is lying.

Yet I do have a never-ending supply of inspiration here in Italy. All I have to do to “top up” is go outside. Talking a long walk never fails me.

View of Amelia Cathedral at dawn from our window.

My love affair with Italy began on a writer’s retreat in 2012. The minute I set foot on terra italiana, I knew I was home, and I suspect some of that familiarity came from growing up in Pasadena, California. The topography, the quality of the light, the feel of the air … there are distinct similarities between the two places. Like Southern California, Italy is a land of artichokes, grapes, roses, oleanders and palms. Cypress trees create dark, candle-shaped silhouettes against a lilac sky. Translucent water laps its shores.

Italy is home.

The entire country is ramshackle, just as it was three thousand years ago, which is likely when the medieval town I live in, Amelia, first gained a foothold on its chalky, phosphorous soil. The Italians built churches — nine-hundred in Rome alone — as a hedge against war, plague, famine and death. Death came anyway, usually in the form of marauders, both foreign and domestic, usually a fresh wave every hundred years.

One of those marvelous churches, Amelia Cathedral, sits directly on the hill in front my house. It’s my secret source of inspiration. Its dark, vaulted interior smells of must and incense. It’s deliciously empty, most of the time. Little Catholic nonnas, with their head scarves, sensible chunk-heeled shoes and heirloom rosaries are usually the only ones who come to Mass anymore. Sometimes one of the village cats will wander inside, blink at me in mild surprise, and lick its paws.

Amelia Cathedral at the top of the hill.

The word inspiration means to “breathe into”, which is exactly what happens when I hike up that hill to Amelia Cathedral. Hundreds of years of prayers were offered here. I can still feel their collective yearning breathing into me.

I often think of the human courage and human frailty these walls have been witness to — young priests dispatched from medieval Rome to lead the faithful. Lovers stealing forbidden kisses. Mothers mourning lost sons. So much life has been lived beneath these luminous windows. It reminds me not to waste time. Death never takes a holiday.

You may wonder why this secular humanist draws so much inspiration from a Catholic church, but I do, I do. If beauty is the illumination of your own soul, then these walls, these windows, this history illuminates.

For all its sham and drudgery, the world can still be a beautiful place if you seek out beauty. Inspiration can come from anything—a dandelion valiantly growing through a crack in the sidewalk. An engrossing book. Or an old stone church that sits at the top of an Umbrian hill.

For me, this is plenty. It’s more than enough.

Where do you go for inspiration? I am genuinely curious! Let me know in the comments section below.

Copyright © 2022 Stacey Eskelin