Last Thoughts From The Cathedral Crypt

[One of the many small chapels in the crypt of Canterbury Cathedral. Photo is mine]

I’m sitting with Mariam in a small chapel in the crypt of this amazing Cathedral. There are several reasons why I’m sitting here on a small very hard wooden chair. One is that the temperature is probably close to 65º F. Outside, it’s in the low 80’s. So it’s cool. The crowds are above me listening to the organ practice. So it’s quiet. And I’m trying to act like an artist. I have my sketch book and drawing pencil. I am not really an artist by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But I’m trying. I’m trying to draw a column that was carved and set in place over 1,000 years ago.

Everywhere I turn I am steeped in history. And the thought weighs heavily on me. The worn limestone steps that lead this way and then that way in the Cathedral are places to contemplate. How many monks, abbots, priests and saints have used these very stones? What undiscovered cleric lies beneath my feet, waiting to be discovered when the stones are taken up to replace a water pipe or repair an already replaced electrical cable that had been installed in 1952?

These thoughts ground me to where I stand. They ground me to a solid stability in a time of turbulence and change.

But, enough about the crypt. Let’s go back several days ago when Mariam and I decided to take a walk. I had to justify bringing my hiking boots, didn’t I? We (I) had big plans to hike the North Downs Way, but the usual lower back issues and leg problems kept our walks to a minimum. So instead we took our chances to hike along the Great Stour Way. It’s a fifty-one mile trip, accessible only a few blocks away from our hotel. And I was curious about what I was capable of.

The day was unusually warm for this part of England. The local fields had just been cut and the pollen was as thick as a January blizzard in Yellowknife, or the smoke from the Canadian wildfires blanketing New York State.

The first part of the walk was through a garden-like park at the northwestern edge of town. People were laying on the lawns reading, small groups were sipping wine, and old men and old women sat on the shady benches thinking about the past.

We came to a bridge. Passing through the short tunnel I noticed three poems written on the brick walls. I photographed all of them. Here is my favorite:

Canterbury

The patchwork houses bend their great heads

Down to greet me as I pass

Walking the cobbled path

Saturated in history

Of those who had gone before me

~ ~

I hear them now

The many remembered and forgotten

Their voices live upon the wind

Their hearts wedded to the horizon

~ ~

Raindrops like goblets patter on the street

Marking the places that their feet once trod

I stand in the footprint already imprinted for me

— Lauren J. (?)

The poem seems to have been written for me, as all great poems are supposed to make you feel.

We finished out trip in a little over an hour. We didn’t get very far, but that wasn’t the point. I know now that I am still capable of some trail walking, no matter how little.

The day after tomorrow, we will be boarding a British Airways flight to JFK. We’ve seen a great deal. The trip was a success beyond my expectations. But what am I going home with? What am I taking with me? How have I changed?

After the exuberance of life in Venice, the riotous traffic of Rome, the art of the Vatican, the pubs and the people of England, the trials and sweat of the Canal boat, seeing old friends…there is a renewed spirit within me that I had begun to lose during the Pandemic.

My experiences have redirected and affirmed aspects of why I choose to get out of my comfort zone. Observing sculpture, buildings and frescoes that were created for the sake of beauty alone and not for utilitarian use has put my mind back on course.

I will choose beauty over the mundane, love over hatred, hope over despair, peace over violence and tenderness over brutality.

And, I will try to remain grounded in the present with deep roots to humanities collective history.

[Along the Great Stour Way. Photo is mine]

[A tree for lovers for sure. Photo is mine]

[Wildflowers along the Great Stour River. Photo is mine]

[NOTE: It is Monday morning in England. 10:45 am to be precise. I have just finished reading “The Case Against Travel” by Agnes Callard in The New Yorker. (June 24, 2023). I have been a faithful reader of that magazine for many decades. I value it’s quality fiction, insightful and timely news articles and, of course, the legendary cartoons.

I found this article a misdirected attack on the whole idea of travel as a broadening experience. Callard clearly does not like to travel so she invokes classic overused quotes from G. K. Chesterton, Ralph Waldo Emerson and even Socrates to support her view. (What can Socrates know about the modern world?). I understand that a fair number of people, famous and otherwise, regard travel as a waste of time. Using that mindset, so is mowing one’s lawn or planting a garden. How do these things change and enrich our thinking about the world as a whole?

I will not write a screed to tear apart her argument. I’ll simply say that I think she misses the bigger picture and that I disagree with her premise. It’s clear to anyone who reads my posts that I love to travel and I feel I am a more rounded and thoughtful individual because of it.]