“How many mysteries are there?”
The question is posed amidst labored breathing, rosy cheeks, and an increasing clip of Sunday foot traffic surrounding us. We are still occupying the morning space of quiet, but there are folks passing in both directions. We look up to record the early risers as they retreat down the hill. “Up with God”, as my dad describes them. Then there’s the incoming tide of later arrivals—we seem to be at the crest of them. And indeed, as the little hand slowly tilts closer to noontime, the influx will increase.
But we’re not pressed for time. Instead, we pause for a moment at a depiction of the Resurrection. One of how mysteries are there again? There seem to be more than we thought, and yet amidst all of our thinking, none of us can remember this fundamental of Catholic teaching. Lapsed as we are in this sort of thing, there have just been too many other points of knowledge to take hold and master since those days. Just right now we’re a bit out of breath. When the mysteries end, ostensibly so will we have completed this journey.
The porticos leading up to San Luca are famous. Famous because they’re the longest in the world, famous because they were constructed in the 17th and 18th centuries and they’ve provided a covered pathway for the centuries-old annual procession of a Byzantine icon of the Madonna up to the Sanctuary of the Madonna of San Luca. UNESCO has been here, not unlike Lalibela or St. Catherine’s. And here I am too, in this version of myself observing a bit before moving along. The Sanctuary is the church at the top of this hill called Colle della Guardia, and this is where we were headed now.
Much like every other way that I’ve moved throughout life, the path to reach 300 meters above the city isn’t always straight and gently sloping upward. Instead, there are flat stretches, stacks of stairs and then steep inclines that are barely safe for runners making the return journey back into town. But you don’t have to make the climb on foot. Some folks cycle up while others take the public road via the San Lucas Express tourist train or just a regular car. There is no one way to get to the top.
The nice thing about making the 3.8-kilometer walk is being able to peer out the porticos and try to catch a decent view of Bologna—especially if it’s a nice day. But Bologna’s weather isn’t always nice, so more often than the rolling hills, there are the mysteries. Points where you can read about and view depictions of the mysteries of the Rosary. There are fifteen, by the way. These stopping points are markers that may or may not motivate you to continue to the top. And if the mysteries aren’t your cup of tea, there is the odd unceremonious graffiti that pays tribute from everything from Kobe to communists to certain parts of the male anatomy. Something for everyone.
All told, the demand on your heart rate isn’t unbearable, and for sure I was motivated to reach the top. I wanted to see what was there. This is a thing that one does when they are new to Bologna. Kind of like climbing the big tower in the middle of the city. Or wandering all of the ground level porticos to discover which gelateria has the best options. Again, there’s a little something for everyone.
It takes just a little bit of patience and tedium, rounding the blocky and bent corners before you finally get to the top. And once you do, for the believers, you are greeted by a cross. From there it’s a short and level passage to the sanctuary. Just below there is a public fountain where packs of parched runners and cyclists alike gather to water themselves. All welcome signs—and this is not even to speak of the rolling hills that you get to take in around you once you are there.
More often than I’d like to admit out loud, I find myself getting tripped up on moments where I’m feeling tired. Or maybe just a bit worn down by the everyday doing of everyday things. It can be easy to find myself faced by the ephemeral question, “What am I even doing?” Running up the hill. For what purpose? I’m heading somewhere, but does it really matter? We exert a lot of ourselves for a sometimes-unknowable payoff that may or may not feel so thrilling when it’s all said and done.
It’s not to say that this morning’s climb was not worth the while. I’ve been living long enough to know that it’s not about what you get at the top (for my belief system, at least). Rather, it’s the pith that rings true in the cliché about the journey being the destination. I like doing stuff like this- methodical, trials that tame your brain and divert your attention to your breath. To your surroundings. And yes indeed, all of the passing around you who are doing the exact same thing as you. Trying to move up and down in the world while ticking off some moments of beauty, adoration, and accomplishment.
For me the mysteries are uncountable. Far more than fifteen—but at the end of the day I incorporate them all. The nice thing about the porticos of San Luca is that it is manageable. You can do it in half of a morning and come out of it feeling a bit renewed. Even if you only poke your head in for a few minutes of Mass before quietly ducking back out again. All of it is a nice reminder that seeking out your own version of a small hill to climb is always a worthwhile activity. You’ll find that you’re probably not alone, and it does wonders for helping to answer the What Am I Doing question without ever telling you a thing.