St. Francis and Me in Israel

 

There is a quote by St. Francis of Assisi sitting smack dab on the very same page in the journal where I began scribbling the happy and illegible notes for this submission. What I call a “paper sandwich,” my journal has sat before me as a confidante for as long as I can remember, most of the writing being legible only to myself. There is poor rhyme and suspect reason clinging to each page. I sometimes write sideways or in gibberish because if I do not get “it” out, like now, it will make me sick. Like a pile of laundry, these words build up inside me, and if there were not regular washing going on, I would surely perish under a load of colors. Ew. That is why I burn these diaries during the season changes. Tossed into crackling dry fires, appropriate colors jump from a particularly high content of chemicals. The memories on those treated pages become nothing short of spectral.

Thankfully, the charming saintly quote give clear direction: “Start by doing what’s necessary, then do what’s possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” Right on, Franky boy. I really had no desire to write anything of value and yet, here I sit with the needs spilling out like beans begging planting on the hill. It reminds me of another time I had brushed up against some force larger than myself, this time, though, it was in a much smaller garden in London, England.

Westminster Abbey in the late 80s was as popular as ever, I guess. It attracted throngs of churchgoers and like-minded, open-mouthed individuals, overly gawking and as impressed as I was by Lord Byron’s name in mosaic floor tile. Even though you knew his body laid at rest far from the Abbey, you still had the exaggerated sense that you belonged with this dead bard somehow, there, in the marble columns and perfect lines of English history. Incidentally, a similar experience happened in the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. I knew Jesus’ bones were not there, but the magic of the residue that his imagery causes surely is present and sits enfolded in myself. Still, Tennyson is no slouch and I could feel his straight posture there in the Poet’s Corner of the Abbey, supporting my step with the other dead writers.

I have made it a point to discover the local church or temple everywhere I travel and, in so doing, I get a general sense of well-being. Traveling along those impersonal foreign roads, eating the unusual foods yet always aware of that one undeniable string links us all together; this keeps me calm. Praying is a serious interest of mine, the “how-to” of it. Because praying is a quest, it consistently tests in many different ways. One day I hope to stumble on real humility, personified.

I stood around with my mouth open in wonder for long enough and brass stenciled an odd twelfth-century figure on to black crate paper. Then I escaped to an outdoor courtyard to catch a breather from the Anglo hum of high culture. Along the way, I saw a small gate about the size of a card table with a sign written on it—in a clear and keep-out calligraphy—something to the effect of “Do not enter.” Yet the gate that stood between this sanctuary’s bowels and me was wide open. Natural dilemma! Portent portent portent! I, the natural explorer described also as a delicately inclined disobedient, saw this paradox as an opportunity to hang out with God. I was not a “believer” because I had known His presence always and therefore had no need for belief per se. I understood this as a direct invitation for investigation and by allowing the word “invite” to tumble from my mind I knew this was a greater gift than I ever could have expected that morning. Walking through those open doors, so grandly studded like huge dappled moth wings, secretly blessed me I think, and seemed only outwardly to be a simple entrance into a church.

Investigating is one of my favorite things to do. Be sure. There’s no mistake in following your heart, and just know that you will always be rewarded with the same like when you reach your destination. My present arrival, into a small garden I had found immediately chiming to my left as I passed through the gate, was in perfect rhythm with the smile in my heart, which I had dutifully followed. There was a space just big enough for a lichened stone bench, a bit of well-tended grass and a bust of some cardinal or other chiseled into an immortalized honor of rock. I sat down on the bench, deep in wonder at how much history had passed before me and how the aeon will pass ever long after I am gone. In other words, I came to a clear state of recognizing my own mortality. Ugh. In exaggerated contemplation, I heard a rushing sound swishing closer and closer. The swish drew in at a latitudinal distance crossing me. I saw a row of eleven priests who silently, except for their long, jet-black robes brushing against the pavement, walked quickly yet without haste to another class or prayer or lunch or whatever Westminster Abbey priests do.

Well, the last priest looked my way. With a barely perceptible facial comment, he suggested I was trespassing (with a notable amount of delivery on the esses in “trespassing”). I had forgotten that fact and was even about to take a small nap when it occurred to me that yes, I was trespassing. With that, I stood up and returned to my place of wandering tourists, wishing all the while that I could move as gracefully as any one of those priests. I do know we have our place, and although we may never discover it, it is surely clear when we do find ourselves out of place.

This is an interesting subject to confer on, finding one’s place. This has always been my immediate goal in life and it was only recently I understood that if the conditions for our inner study are always correct, just as they are, then I am in my place already and always have been.

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