Wednesday, January 02, 2008

London Journals (1)- November 2007

(Here are some journal splashes from my trip to London in the fall)

Hyde Park - Sunday in November

Damn! I'm in front of a beauty only heaven can match and I haven't a battery in my camera! But...perhaps nothing else would bring my pen to paper. But when I write, I can't see the shimmer. The pink horizon. But I can hear the birds - pesky pigeons that annoy at any other time, now lend a measure of music to this scene. i feel the chill on my sweater...but I'm warmed from walking. Only a few brief moments ago, I fought the rush of humanity all to get here, for a magical sunset, a wonder that pales to any that I thought to pay for this evening.

I'm on a picnic bench. The bright hues of fall explode around me, but they dim quickly as the sun takes shelter beneath the horizon. some weeping willow may hint at sadness, but it is crowed with golden leaves. Betrayed.

An explosion of languages surrounds me, words in a thousand tongues fly through the cooling air. I don't know what a Londoner is, but I want to be one. I am at once drawn to the beautiful French families strolling promenades arm-in -arm and to British children singing songs that I don't know, and Eastern European girls with their skinny legs and tall boots..I want to be like them, too.

Bright green. yellow. brown. black. pale sky. Colors are vibrant, dimming, collected into art. can I complain when I am here. Or when this morning I experienced the presence of the living God...expressed in the gold. brown. blues of the church -

...the Church was entirely foreign, yet approachable. Very distant, yet so present and comfortable. A picture of paradox - paradox that brings me so close to the cross, so close to the essence of Christ. Not that He, or faith, or God are contradictions, but they are mystery. Old&New / Gilded Icons & sunset sky / tired feet from standing & rest found in words of truth / beauty&pain / sin exposed (like..every waking minute) & sin reposed ( like..every waking minute).

The beauty of the chants stirred my soul, or at least, satisfied it - even when I did not take the words at their fullness. I hoped and trusted something snuck into my pores, like the fragrance of worship did to my senses.

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