Taking my pants off, I can see the priests marching, as if in holy procession, outside the church. They’ve gathered their things and are going home, perhaps, after a long day of sermon — or just hanging out — at the Greek church. Even when I lie down, I can see its bright-blue domes looming against the sky.
When I come home from work in the evenings, I lie down to take off my top. (In case the priests can see me, I wouldn’t want to expose them to the unholy sight of privates) I could make the short trip to the bathroom and change there, or to the living room even since my roommate is almost always not here. But I don’t want to miss it. With my bed set right against my window and my window facing out into the beauty of the giant trees and the massive church across the sky, it’s like I’ve got first-row seats to a gorgeous, living procession. I wake up to it, with the birds’ sweet song, and in the evenings, I sit next to it, eat, read and play guitar, and lean with elbows on the ledge and hear the gentle whispers of the leaves.
It’s really quite nice.
The other thing is, rewind before I reach my house in the evenings, and as I walk down the streets and make that last turn onto my block, this quiet, delightful feeling sinks in: a welcome realization that I’ve stepped onto a set. A set out of those movies set in small, iconic villages on the Italian countryside.
In this film, I’m not the protagonist, but one of the extras … the girl who walks every day during rehearsals from point A to point B, holding groceries, watching the priests and still smiling as she turns, walks up the few steps and disappears into the building.
I like this role, yes, quite like it, and I’m proud of myself. I’m building my life quite well. One step at a time. And though I call it “rehearsal,” truth is, they’re shooting the whole time.