Once a month, I will post a favorite story from the year prior.
Travel Journal, 72
A dull throbbing cut through my worn-out running shoes and seeped into the pads of my feet. The ancient stone floor wasn’t helping. Jet lagged and bedraggled, there we stood—occasionally. After short intervals of standing, a hallow voice asked us to be seated. And so the pattern continued. Stand, sit, stand, sit.
Every once and a while I smelled smoke and wax. Burning candles glowed on tables and shelves and stone and glass. But the aroma implied so much more than just a burning candle. It hinted at old candles, new candles, forgotten candles. It was the aroma of candles continuously burning—maybe for centuries. Out of the smoke and silence rose a voice; many voices. Soon the Choir of Westminster Abbey all sang together. They had started so quietly that I hardly knew when they had begun. Perhaps the choir had always been singing. Was I not listening?
My feet still hurt. But the intoxicating cold stone, smoke, and music gently eased the ache. We had walked all over London—Piccadilly circus, Parliament, London Tower, new roads, old roads, iconic ally-ways, ect. The day culminated at the Westminster Abbey for evensong. Nearly every day, the old church hosts an evening worship service comprised of Biblical readings and ethereal choral music. The day began to close as we made our way to the church. As we waited in line, I turned to read a nearby sign.
“No Pictures. No Mobile Phones.”
I begrudgingly stuffed my eager phone (already 9 months pregnant with travel photos) back into my pocket. But as we shuffled quietly into the building, all desire to take pictures fell away. We found our spot in folding chairs on the old stone floor. Then it all began. And our tired bodies and minds vulnerably soaked up the experience like a dry rag.
After an hour, it was over and we shuffled back out toward the door. Nearby, a not-so-sneaky tourist held up a cellphone and snapped a photo. Out from behind him, a vicar began verbally berating the man for taking a photo.
Only an hour ago that was me. But now I was as appalled as the irritated Church leader. How could he take a picture after something like that? Did we not have the same experience?
Pictures have their place. And I am still trying to find all those places. But I long for the places where picture taking seems inappropriate. Places like Westminster Abbey tend to make cell phones feel cheap and indecent. I want to see those places. I want to experience places of awe and dignity where trivial things like pain and jet lag melt away.
A picture may say a thousand words, but it turns out that I don’t really care. The smell of smoke and wax burns my mind. The music haunts my nights. And an experience like that cannot be cheaply manufactured (or even recalled) by any technology.
anthony forrest
