I spent a day getting lost on purpose. Getting lost on purpose frees you...........strips you of the bag of rocks you've accumulated and have made you feel bogged down weary. It allows you to carry only what you need for the journey.....yourself. For me, it seems like its the only way to search for a lost chord needed to recapture the harmony. I knew it was missing, however I didn't even know what it sounded like. Perhaps I had never heard it all on it's own.
I let my feet take on the prayer.......one which began without the parameter of words or phrases.........just a pounding of the pavement, a rhythm of my movement, a cadence to help me release unhelpful energy and to replace it with preferred focus. I was in search of that one lonely chord lost in the cacophonic noise called busy anxious life.
It was mid afternoon. Save for a few quick stops to listen in places I kind of expected to hear something, I had been walking for nonstop for over 4 hours. I found myself in front of a smallish church (in comparison to the grandiose elegance of St. Pauls just up the road. The intuitive pull tugged on me as I stepped out of the hurried city and into this small cathedral, through a heavy wooden door.
Right away I found myself in silent comfort, pulled by the aroma of the wooden pews, the light filtering onto the brocade of worship, the colour cascading all around me. I was pulled right into it's reverence. No sound, except my own steps.
As I walked through the entrance and into the main body of the cathedral, I saw to my right a person sitting hunched over on a wooden chair completely covered in their outergear.....hood pulled up to hide the face. In front of this person were two bags. Their sole possessions possibly? My heart opened in empathy looking down at this crumpled person, broken by life, exhausted by their journey to find their own chord. I didn't even know the sex of the person.........all I could see was a shape....the outer shell of a sleeping feeling human being who escaped into the cathedral for respite and nourishment.
I wanted to touch the human being......put my hand on their knee......to let them know they weren't alone..........I wanted to reach out to them and see if they needed anything. While I was standing there beside him or her pondering it all, I heard something very faint. It was the softest plink, like a waterdrop on porcelain. plink.
I decided to leave the person in silence, realizing it was presumptuous of me to even think that I could help them. I realized that perhaps it was the other way around. Their presence helped me......helped me find focus. I then heard the sound again......plink.........like a raindrop falling into a birdbath.
I moved up the middle aisle, quietly opened the door of one of the middle pews and slid in. Though I was the only one sitting in the pews, I chose the middle. It felt right to be surrounded on all sides by a balance. Behind me slept the unmoving crumpled soul whom I could feel. I wasn't alone. We weren't alone. The air was thin with a presence I hadn't felt in a long time.
I heard it again.............a soft, faint plink which felt like it had touched me on the top of my head....a dewdrop of light emanating from above..........warming and seeping into my skin.....inviting me to gaze upwards.
It was then that I realized what the lost chord sounded like. It sounded like peace. As I looked up at the beauty I was sitting below, the peaceful chord reached my lips and left a tinge of salt. Peace and salt.
My feet settled, my soul felt less tangled...... I bowed my head like the crumpled person behind me to let the lost chord touch the back of my neck and shoulders while I sat inside the words of a prayer.....one which included a plink or two of my own tears.
The dome of St. Dunstan's church, on Fleet Street. It is the "home" of writers. I wasn't aware of this until I read the brochure I picked up on my way back out onto the busy street.