Catacombs

On our trip to Rome, we toured the ancient Catacombs of Domitilla. The first tombs were dug somewhere between 100 and 300 CE. Over time, 174,000 people were laid to rest there. Walking through the tunnels, we passed the bones of those families. The lights only reached as far as the path we were on. The tunnels branched off into darkness in every direction. An underground breeze moved through the whole place, keeping the body already on alert just a little more on edge.

We had been promised it would be cold—a welcome relief after sweaty days in the Roman summer heat. It delivered. It also felt like genuine exploration, even as a guided tour.

On the way out, our guide pointed out graffiti scratched into the stone walls. Names etched near the burial places of families who had rested there for centuries. One name caught my attention: Giovanni.

The catacombs weren’t officially discovered until long after Giovanni’s visit. I tried to put myself in his shoes. He may have found them on his own, or heard about them the way kids always hear about things. I thought maybe it was like the Lady of the Lake or Sasquatch. Everywhere has its version of a persistent tale that gets passed down.

Whether a rumor or a dare, Little Giovanni, I assume young, had found the tombs. As scary as it was for me, I imagine it was far scarier without a tour guide and a lit tunnel. Whatever drew him there, Giovanni went. And then he did what we do: he left his name.

What I found particularly remarkable was the date. He etched his name on the wall in the 1760s. Giovanni was in the tunnels before the USA was independent. He was down there 100 years before Italy was Italy. He wanted to leave his mark on the world, and did. He did it in a dark, cramped tunnel. Perhaps he left it as a challenge to his friends. He might have assumed no one would ever see it. He left it anyway.

My sense of how long humans have been like this wasn’t old enough. Hundreds of years ago, kids were sneaking into places they weren’t supposed to be. Hundreds of years ago, kids were exploring. They were leaving a mark—maybe not even to be seen by many, but there for whoever looked.

The need to say I was here isn’t new. It seems to be old and stubborn and deeply human. I have had others leave their mark on me. Long after they forgot our conversation, it was still a beacon for me. They weren’t monumental occasions. They were small marks at the right time in the right way. It is a powerful feeling when I learn someone is carrying a thought from me that I’ve forgotten I said.

Am I etching my mark, even if I think no one is looking? Do I let others know when they’ve marked me? What would I do if I stopped worrying about who might find it?

Be curious, be kind, be whole, do good things.