french lilacs
There is a gentle slope leading to the Patriarchal Cathedral in Bucharest, a path designed to encourage reverence and introspection.
It doesn’t wind at all, so that during the procession the bell towers and the cathedral entrance are always in full view. On both sides of the road, all the way from the plaza to the nave’s entrance, the path is lined with lilacs, a slow ceremonial walk through a forest in bloom.
Just in time for Easter, a fragrant veil, painted in every shade from pure white to the deep purple, covers their tall branches. It takes time to create a landscape like this, more time than the rushed gardener considers spending nowadays. French lilacs can take four, five, sometimes seven years to bloom.
The road leads towards the east, and in the afternoon, when the bell rings for evening service, the oblique rays of the setting sun bathe the fragrant forest in golden light. The space is strangely quiet, considering the cathedral hill is right in the middle of downtown; it feels as if one suddenly walked into another world where time is slower, and spared the petty worries.
Gentle voices chant the Cherubic Hymn, almost in a whisper, and their echoes, reverberated by the marble floors and walls of the cathedral, pour down the lilac lined path.
“Set aside all earthly cares, set aside all earthly cares…” the voices beseech, as you enter the walled courtyard festooned by white verandas and accented by overflowing pots of bright red geraniums.
The lilacs are out of sight, but their fragrance still lingers, saturating the air.
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