Notre Dame Cathedral’s two towers cast long, dark shadows
across the square. I felt my neck pop as I tried to see the roof. I found
myself admiring the intricacy of it, from the smiling saints carved in layers
above the doors to the tiny gargoyles near the top of the towers, leering down
at the rest of Paris.
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| The most beautiful building in Paris. |
High
above the square, the cathedral bells rang nine times. I convinced my parents
to go inside for the 9 o’clock Mass, remembering how much I’d enjoyed hearing
it in Spain. As we walked through the wooden doors, I could instantly tell
Notre Dame was lovely, with flickering reflections of candles dancing on the
black-and-white floors. And then I heard it, echoing through the columns,
seeming to emanate from the very walls:
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| North Rose Window |
The
Gregorian chant, bounced off of every surface. It filled the towering stone
arches, rising all the way to the bands of marble crisscrossing the ceiling.
The echoes easily lasted eight seconds or longer, sound waves overlapping each
other and creating an otherworldly drone effect. I crossed to the heart of the
cathedral and stood still, listening to the chanting. Bright spots of red,
blue, and green sparkled on my left arm. I glanced up and couldn’t help
gasping: sunlight was coming through the North Rose Window, and I stood right
in the center of the circle of light. Without warning, tears sprang into my
eyes. It was the most beautiful thing I’d experienced in Paris.
I
wouldn’t describe myself as religious. However, I can tell when I’m in a sacred
place. It’s a physical feeling: a certain tingling of the spine, a seemingly
unexplained shiver that sends goosebumps down my arms. Standing there in the
North Rose Window’s light, listening to the Alleluia
and having those sensations, I knew that I was in a very sacred place indeed.
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