train-ride ramblings

I write between sips of coffee and ticket checks on a train from London to Edinburgh. It is early – an ungodly hour – but I remain awake. By now, I figure we are passing through Northumberland. The train ride has been slow, but the scenery is captivating. Right now, we are traveling through a patch-work countryside that runs along rolling hills and swims with sheep and cattle. The clouds hang low here, just out of reach, blanketing the land like a cool cotton throw. We’ve passed countless parishes, cathedrals, and castles, most of which will remain nameless in my memories of this morning. Emily Haines sings sweetly through my headphones and I’ve decided that train rides are to be savored like this rich cup of coffee that I sip. As I look out the window, I feel as if I’m watching a movie: I’m entranced by the film-like way in which the foreground zips by the train – a smear of green bushes and shrubs – while the background passes by in slow motion – lazy hills and trees and buildings inching by. I can just make out the coast to my right – yes: we are in Northumberland. We will soon be in Scotland where the kilted men roam and bagpipes surely echo through the hillside.

reflections on gandhi’s statue in tavistock square

Gandhi, enshrined (link to the photo)

an enshrined prophet of copper sits with legs crossed and eyes fixed low as lovers rest in shade, cast long by purple trees. the pigeons keep an eye on things around here, as do the squirrels. a rare white pigeon encircles the centerpiece-prophet like a dove, crying “peace, peace” with its flapping wings. but no one hears. and the light inches out of the park – down, down, down, and out – as it sinks low behind the concrete fortress of buildings. the seated prophet watches the light inch away. he finds it strange that the empire he brought down to its knees now enshrines him in copper and places him among pigeons.

Oh, the endless boundless joys of public transportation

some observations and occurences:

1. a man of business – standing, tall, white hair, 50-something, suited up – sneezes (a big one!) on the outstrected newspaper of the unsuspecting woman – seated, small, younger-than-50 – in front of him.

2. the tube car is full, packed perhaps to the max, and the doors begin to close as a british voice reverberates through the masses: “please stand clear of the closing doors.” and then, a CRASH! a blue starched arm breaks through the closing doors, making a scene, and although the doors don’t open, a grunting body pushes its way through- determined, dirty, a blonde man of thirty- fighting the barely opened doors!…. and he triumphs! he does, however, take away some souvenirs from the battle: black lines and harsh creases in the blue starched shirt he wears. was it worth it? we will never know.

3. raised arms, bodies touching everywhere, little air, deoderant (or worse: the lack there of) drifting in and out of the spaces between facesneckstorsosarmshandslegsfeetbags of all the commuters who are united between tube stops only by frustration and the synchronized swaying of their bodies moving together, rapidly underground.

meeting dilip in trafalgar square

So I’ve been reading Dorothy’s Day’s autobiography “The Long Lonliness.” It is a very dangerous book… dangerous because of how it makes me think… dangerous because of the truth that rises out of the pages… dangerous because of how powerful a life lived in such abandon can be. And this book has been inspiring. I long to live in such a way where my words and deeds are inseperable; where I live out my deepest convictions and truly learn to love and serve.

 Last Thursday, I spent the morning on the bus reading the introduction to this book and of Day’s childhood. I left work around 5:30pm to head to Trafalgar Square where they were showing a 7:00 viewing of Swan Lake on a huge screen…. *for free. By the time I arrived at the square, I had about an hour to kill before I met up with the rest of the group, so I sat down with my book and a picnic dinner along a metal fence lining the outside of the square. Not too long after I sat down, an older man came to sit beside me. He was wearing a dirty white linen shirt and carrying a pink and purple back-pack. He smelled faintly of alcohol and saw dust. 

“You have a green aura about you,” he said, leaning over with a slight smile.

I laughed. “Do you think it has anything to do with this?” I asked, motioning to the bright green scarf I was wearing. 

“Maybe so,” he joked, ”but you have a rare mark of the psyche just above your eyebrow.” He pointed under my cap.

“A chicken pox scar,” I commented.

“No, no, this one is very rare.” He went on to talk about astrology and the different kinds of auras. He asked me for a pen and then for my palm. He drew on my palm different lines and planets and told me a bit about them. He proceeded to show me two magic tricks, one of which I caught, but the other still has me wondering how he pulled it off…

He said that he was from India, but had traveled all over the world. If he had the chance, he would live in the Bahamas… or Hawaii.

“Do you know of St. Teresa?” he asked. I told him that I did and that I admired who she was and how she lived. He asked me if I had any money I could donate to the St. Teresa Fund. “I’ll make sure it gets there,” he added.

I told him I didn’t have much money, but I asked him if he wanted to share my picnic dinner with me. He said no at first, but then I brought out the hummus and told him that everyone should try it at least once, so he did. We shared pitas and hummus and cheese and grapes while we talked and watched a camera crew fumble through the crowd.

We exchanged names. His was Dilip (he had to spell it for me). Then he told me about the Indian temple where he worships. He said that every Saturday from 8-9:00pm, they gather together and walk around the temple, chanting the name of God: Krishna. “There is something very holy about uttering God’s name,” he whispered. “Do you believe in God?”

I told him yes, and he nodded in approval and said that the most important thing we can do is to believe in God. I agreed, adding that it’s also important for us to live out our beliefs… to put flesh on them and give them life.  Again, he approved. He went on to talk about his experience with God. “We must know God before we can know peace,” he said. He invited me to his temple and we marked it approximately on my map. Before he left, he took my right hand firmly in both of his. “Tonight, I will pray for you,” he said, and I know I will see you again. Will you also pray for me tonight?”

I said I would. He gave me a hug and told me that he hoped to see me soon, and then he wandered through the crowd. I want more than anything go to his temple and worship with him. There was a genuineness about his spirit that stirred mine that day… and somehow we are brothers and sisters. On that evening in the square, we gathered around our make-shift table with a feast that fed so much more than our stomachs. I hope to see Dilip again. I hope to hear more about his life; more about his story, but tonight, we will meet eachother in prayer. Our God is truly a beautiful God.

a short poem of sorts…

Well, this is no haiku, but I was inspired by the London Eye as we were exploring the other day, and when we stopped in a little cafe to get out of the rain and warm up (because it was snowing!), I jotted this down….

The London Eye

must have seen so much

with its steel in a wheel

circling high

against skies

and those pods of his

must get heavy,

for surely

many burly

men have crowded in

to gawk at Ben

who answers them all

with his hourly call
until Peter Pan perches

on time’s long hand

like a tyrannical politician

or a misguided pigeon

throwing everything off balance.

(the line about Peter Pan is, of course, in lieu of the movie scene which our friend Bethany likes to remind us of. I have yet to see Pan’s statue in Hyde Park… but I will… )