Phil Rice

The Recognition: a Vignette

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
     Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
     Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone

Keats' poem was dancing in my head as I approached Trinity Episcopal Church in Gatlinburg, Tennessee one Sunday morning late in the dog days of summer. The little neo-Gothic church building is sturdy and compact, adhering by design to the traditional proportions of medieval English country churches. The outside walls are of impressive grey fieldstone and the floor of smooth, natural flagstone, all firmly held together by massive beams of solid oak.

When old age shall this generation waste,
          Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Planted in the middle of the raging tempest of tourism that defines the mountain village in which it has been nurtured, Trinity has stood for decades as an architectural nod to finer glories. Since my first visit in 1978, I have always felt a powerful energy from the building, an energy that transcends the lifespan of the structure's physical existence and reaches deep into a spiritual wellspring. It's a beautiful spot, one I find myself returning to from time-to-time, with or without a liturgical motivation. On this day the service itself held little interest for me; I had come for the energy.

The heavy wooden door, still painted red in the grand Anglican tradition, swung open slowly, creaking with each movement. The organist was apparently offering a short recital prior to the normal prelude for the main service. As I stepped over the threshold, I could feel the music from the pipe organ wafting past me and out into the street beyond. Only a few parishioners had arrived early to hear the toccata, but the beauty of the music wasn't dependent on the number of listeners.

Heard melodies are sweet

I stood for a moment in the little narthex, absorbing the ambiance, letting my senses be at the mercy of the surroundings. And then I noticed that I wasn't alone in the foyer. In the shadows to my left was a solitary figure, her body in quiet repose, stoic and motionless in absolute harmony with the oak bench upon which she sat, as if she and it were jointly carved by the hand of a divine artisan. In response to my studious gaze, her head lifted up, and our eyes met.

Her face radiated intense strength and pure enchantment. Rising above the delicate outline of her pursed lips, her cheekbones were rounded and placed high in perfect proportion to the delicate sharpness of her nose. All of her features were gracefully framed by golden brown hair that fell just shy of touching her shoulders. The celestial vision was exquisitely pulled together and held in permanent suspension by a pair of silvery blue eyes from which the universe flowed. I knew instinctively that she and I were dwelling among the holy, together, and never have I felt so welcome.

but those unheard
     Are sweeter

The recognition was immediate, and not just because we had met some twenty-five years before, in that very building. There was recognition, then, too, the same recognition joining us in the narthex—a recognition that, born of pure love, exceeds mere intellect; a recognition that arises from intimate awareness; a recognition that reflects beginning-less time. Our smiles, subtle and reverent, were locked together during that spontaneous taste of eternity. Then, with a slight nod and as if on cue, I quietly turned on my heel and slipped out onto the street.

As I walked past the assorted bait shops for hungry tourists that flood the little town, I felt her presence—recognized her in my every breath.  I was acutely aware of how my polished dress shoes made contact with the pavement in rhythm with the earth's spinning on its axis, in perfect alignment with every star and every step and every heartbeat. And at that very moment I knew that she and I would walk together, as always.

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
          Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

                                          Photo by Charles Rice

A native of Tennessee, Phil Rice currently lives and writes in the shadows of the Alleghenies of Western Pennsylvania. He co-founded Canopic Jar as a print journal in 1986.