I want to leave you with some good things to think about, after all that negative stuff. Kiev really is a beautiful place, and the people here are nothing short of fantastic. There isn’t a whole lot of tourism here, so people are not worn out by forever being barked at, “D’ya speak ENGLISH?” Virtually everywhere we have gone, somebody is always waiting to go out of their way to be helpful- it is a genuinely lovely and truly touching thing every time it happens, because it’s just so easy to ignore other people’s problems or situations. The spirit of generosity and friendliness has just enriched every experience we’ve had and I would recommend Kiev to anyone who would like to go somewhere completely different, untouched by mass tourism, and generally pretty affordable.
Last week I had one of the best days of my life, and I will always remember it that way. We decided to head down to the giant park and monastery, this is meant to be the main attraction that you have to go see if you are in Kiev, the Caves at Lavra. First we stopped at the monument to the Ukrainian Famine/Genocide of the 1930’s. This is when millions died by a man-made famine to try to get the people to submit to Mother Russia instead of independence. The monument was absolutely beautiful. It had such clarity of vision and it was so eloquent, it really took your breath away. Breaking free of stone, indeed.
Underneath the tower is a museum that is a huge dark room with a circle of leather bound volumes of the names of those who died of starvation. The names also play on the screens that run around the circular room, with old farming machinery and empty baskets in the space. In the center of the room which is directly under the monument is the most gorgeous carved vertical slabs of marble, made to look like Ukrainian embroidery that surrounds an inner sculpture which is suspended in the air from a skylight. There is a glass column filled with grain and 4 small alter-like areas where you can light a slim beeswax candle in memory of the dead. An illuminated modified cross sits on top of the grain. It was truly stunning- the play of light, the scope of the piece and the effect of suspension, the glassed-in grain that you could see but could not have- all of it was just executed so powerfully. It may be one of the most moving pieces of art I have ever seen.
Outside as you approach the monument from the street the first sculptures you see are double angels that serve as gates to the path. Then you see the bronze sculpture of a child survivor of starvation with her head turned towards the rising sun. The last thing that I loved (and forgot to take a photo of because I was just so involved looking at it and thinking) was a sculpture on a platform above the stairs down into the museum. It was a grouping of golden metal rods that were swirled as if by the wind, meant to be a swath of growing grain and also people standing in solidarity- bending to accommodate the force of the unseen wind, but not breaking. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!
On to the monastery and the caves at Lavra. Oh my god, if I only had any idea of what we were about to see! I keep thinking about it, and I get both a chill and a warm rush all at once. It was one of the most moving experiences of my life, and I will remember it until the day I die. Absolutely everything.
It is nearly impossible to put into words the grandness and majesty of everything before your eyes. It’s holy, it’s carnival-like for your eyes, it’s still and ancient and peaceful, it’s a celebration of God and people and faith and what the two can do together, it feels eternal but precious like all this beauty might disappear before your eyes like a rainbowed soap bubble before you can drink it all in forever. Imagine an ancient town of about 20 buildings on small streets set on hills that are cobblestoned with expanses of greenery and tall scarlet roses the colour of velvet movie theatre curtains growing in rows. Imagine stone walls and sun-bleached frescos painted onto chipping plaster walls, and old ladies in babushkas walking arm and arm with each other and young, fresh faced men wearing full length black fitted cloaks with black buttons briskly passing by as if you are in an invisible time machine. And then the bright, 24kt golden onion domes reflecting all the light in the sky like crowns. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I believe that in a handful of years if not fiercely preserved, it will have signs up in English and a Starbucks across the street.
My favourite photos below so far- ones that I can’t wait to blow up big when we get home, I just can’t choose which lens is cooler:
Then there is this mesmerising singing that echos out from each of the churches when mass is celebrated. And this faint ghost of frankincense that floats on the air and mixes with all the roses; words just can’t do any of this justice. One of the churches had an open door that was up by the alter where perhaps 2 or 3 people could peek in behind a velvet rope. The singing was so- pure- that’s the only word that keeps coming to mind, that we were drawn to it and we stood captivated by the door losing track of time completely.
Inside the church again, words can’t describe. I just keep saying beautiful over and over again, because that’s what it was. I will never forget what my eyes saw. It was so dark inside, and the dome of the ceiling was so high, with small slants of light coming in from tiny windows. The ceiling was deep navy blue painted with angels, and the alter was entirely gilded, it must have been 20 feet tall. There were scenes of biblical paintings and saints in pastel coloured robes, all surrounded heavily in gold. There were two large golden (I’m sorry I don’t know the correct terminology) candleholders that held so many tall, thin yellow beeswax candles that reflected their flickering lights into the golden alter and on the faces of the women in prayer, making them all look younger than their aged years. Some of the babushkas had embroidery, some had small beads or sequin details that glittered like fireflies in the candlelight. And then the men singing with such peaceful belief in their voices and the priest in his embroidered gowns swinging the incense that perfumed the room with the beeswax burning candles… it was like a tidal wave of beauty washing over you, it was just about overwhelming to your senses and too much to take in. I don’t know how long we stood experiencing all of this, and it was an experience- you weren’t just looking but you were smelling and listening and feeling- but all of a sudden I just could not hold the tears back, and so there we were. Oisin was standing in front of me, and he had no idea I was a crying mess, and then I heard sniffling and I realised he too, the Confirmed Atheist, was crying. It was just all so beautiful. It was even better than making it to the Klimt gallery all those years ago on my own after saving so long and working so hard and coming out of all that bad crap I had to wade through before dropping out of university because of exhaustion… it was just unforgettable, incomparable beauty like a living, breathing thing.
And then yet another experience of kindness that would take our breath away: one of the monks obviously had noticed us, and he walked over and unhooked the rope and beckoned us inside instead of standing in the doorway. I was wearing jeans, not a skirt, though as a mark of respect I did buy and wear a head scarf before we went. (I wondered about this quite a bit before we went because I’m Jewish, but then I figured if non-Jewish people wear kippahs out of respect if they come to a service at a synagogue, then surely it would be OK if I did the same, not out of religious obedience, but out of sensitivity & respect to the beliefs of others.) He motioned to my jeans and shook his head to say it was OK, he understood and yet we were still welcome, and it just added to the tears, this kindness of inclusion by a stranger. He led us inside personally past those in prayer and I will never forget that moment. It was so expansive and beautiful. How lucky we were to experience it.
I’m skipping ahead now to the next day, because all we did after that was literally wander around for 4 hours back and forth uphill and down, trying to find the damn caves without being able to properly read Cyrillic signs. Truly, nobody spoke a word of English. So we went home and decided to come back the next day to find those caves!
I’m leaving out so much again, but we did find the caves, experienced more kindness by people who helped me figure out that they had skirts I could rent before going into the caves so I would be suitably attired. First off, no skirt, no caves. I would have missed all of it. Secondly, even if I saw other people paying and getting a skirt, I would have never known that they were only giving a deposit- I would have just paid and would have been out that much-needed money. So kindness, kindness, kindness once again by people just wanting to help a complete stranger and who wanted nothing in return when it would be so easy to take advantage of somebody.
Those caves just blew our minds. You go down steep stone steps through small silent hallways lit by only the beeswax candle you carry in your hand. The walls are white, and in the dim snaking hallways and alcoves there are hanging tiny oil lamps above the glass coffins of mummified saints, wrapped in blankets heavily embroidered with pearls and jewels and golden thread. I do not mean to give the impression of ghoulish spookiness, because it’s the furthest thing away from that. It is peaceful and curious. Also, I am seeing it as a non-Catholic, so I’m coming from a place of appreciating the history of the place (10th century) and the power of the connection that people who share this faith have for the saints who are remain there. Some of the saints actually chose to live inside the caves, and had food and water brought down to them, and then died there. Not all of the saints were within the special glass coffins, some were still encrypted within the walls, and there were little covered windows that you could look into in places to see their skeletal remains. The other striking thing about the ancient saints were just how tiny people were, hundreds of years ago. None of the coffins were more than 5 feet long, and even then there was some room at the head and feet. A few of the saints had a hand placed outside a slit in their robe, the hands were tiny and blackened with age. Above each coffin was a painting of the saint in life and their name. It was pretty amazing to see a painting match the person inside the glass coffin in front of you, knowing that hundreds of years ago they walked through the very cave you are standing in; they brought comfort to the faithful, and to be able to think about what they did to claim sainthood after their death. People were kissing the coffins and were crossing themselves in blessings. What a thing to be able to come to a place like this as a Catholic, to have this experience! It was incredible to me as someone who is not a Catholic- I can only imagine what this would be like coupled with the power of one’s faith. Amazing!
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