On Church

I'm not sure I'm in the right time space at the moment to share this experience with you. I don't want it to sound too melodramatic or churchy so I am writing in the morning when I am at my most logical. It's just too oppressively hot to write in the afternoon for me, and my entries end up developing a major crankitude as a result. Nighttime generally gives way to sentimentality and clouded judgement for me (esp after a glass or two of Woodbridge), and this topic needs to be genuine in content. So, morning it is.

Notes on Traveling
Lesson # 3: Do Something Non touristy
You can find Lesson #1 here and Lesson #2 here.

It seems like forever ago that I decided to ask my school if I could go to England for the International Baccalaureate conference, but I'm pretty sure it was during the fall, close to winter break. The second I saw the Oxford conference on the IB website, I remember having one of those feelings - like I knew it was supposed to happen. But in the reality of the day, the idea of the school actually sending me all the way to England for training, especially since there were other conferences closer to home, was ridiculous. I actually had to get up the the courage to ask my IB coordinator if it was even a possibility, which means that I dreamed about it, had millions of conversations with Christine about it, and changed my mind a billion times. I remember asking on a day when I felt a little bit untouchable for some reason which means I had either had a really good day (rare last year) or an "I really don't give a shit" kind of day (more probable). I needed an adventure, after all, and I had been trying to get out of town for some sort of Jack Kerouac experience (with fewer drugs and less anonymous sex).

This is all a really long introduction to say that, to my astonishment, the IB gods smiled on me that day, and the verdict was yes. Go to Oxford, Ginger! My response was, "Really?!" followed by an internal, "Oh hell no! What did I just sign-up for? I can't fly by myself! I'll have to actually talk to people, and maneuver my way around England!? The Underground ticket people are scary, and what am I going to eat? I've only been to England 8 or 9 times! I'll have to make friends! How in the hell am I going to do this? Shit!" followed by, "This is exactly what you need. Get a grip. It's England. You love England. You are an empowered woman - read your 'cunt-lovin' womanifesto! Plus, you're not a complete stranger. You know people there.."

That's when I decided to write to Mark and let him know that I might be in his town, hoping that he would have dinner one night with me so that I would at least see a familiar face. He immediately offered me hospitality and invited me to stay a few days before/or after my conference.*

To make a long story short(er), I took him up on the offer and spent a few days in London (Southgate - sort of the burbs of London, in a very different burbs kind of way) before I headed to Oxford for my conference.

During this time, I was privileged enough to see the goings on in Southgate and to meet several of Mark's brilliant friends! They were all so receiving and kind! I felt immediately at home with them, a sure sign of good-hearted folks.

On my last day in Southgate, Mark and I opted to go to church, possibly an odd thing to do when one is in London for a short time. and definitely a non-touristy thing to do since it wasn't a service at Westminster or something like that. Mark apparently adores the Quaker church in Southgate called Winchmore Hill. I was curious about it, thanks to his description. I had never been to a Quaker church before and for some reason I was really drawn to the idea. I honestly had no idea what to expect, other than what I had read on Mark's blog and what he mentioned to me in some of our wonderfully eclectic (frantically ADD) conversations.

So we went.

The service was different than any I had ever attended (and I have attended several denominations of Christian churches here (Baptist, Methodist, Church of Christ, Lutheran, Catholic etc.) and have even been to a Mosque for prayer time and to a Krishna church) in that it was a service of meditation. You sit in meditation for 30 to 45 minutes and if you feel led to speak, you simply stand and say what you are moved to say, the idea being that the participants are unified in the spirit, and each person's words further your experience. There is no structure or sermon. There is no music. It is all about contemplation and "silent waiting."

Anyone who knows me knows that within my anxiety ridden bones, "silent waiting" would sound almost tortuous for me. I am, after all, a tad OCD and ADD and I have to get things done according to my list. But that day (the whole day, even before the service) I had been still. I was completely calm and could breathe mindfully.

And we waited, silently, in that wood paneled room.

The first thing I thought was, "OK. Here you have me. I'm still. Oh shit. You have me, still." And I was confronted about my angry bitterness and my overwhelming need to not rely on anyone or anything, especially something as abstract as God, or a husband, or friends. And I did some confronting about Dot Wonderful, too. Especially about my Dot. And as I was beginning to shake within all of these confrontations, someone stood up to speak.

She mentioned the laughter of children who were playing outside near the church and the beauty in the simplicity of that.

(tears - and I felt embarrassed to have them in front of my friend, Mark, and the strangers in the room)

And then someone else stood up and read from a Quaker book of advices and queries. She read #21: Do you cherish your friendships, so that they grow in depth and understanding and mutual respect? In close relationships we may risk pain as well as finding joy. When experiencing great happiness or great hurt we may be more open to the working of the Spirit.

(more tears - and I reached out my pinkie finger to Mark for him to hold with his pinkie finger - like Amy and I used to do when we were kids at First Baptist El Paso, and like I continued to do with Lisa and Jen during any time when we needed each other, and like I do with Rich when I want to remember that friendship first connection with him)

And there was catharsis in that moment. And I felt warm, like I was standing in sunlight on an almost cold day. I felt that for the rest of the day - when I was having tea with the congregation, avoiding pictures on the Winchmore Hill grounds, having lunch at the art gallery.. Even when I had to say a quick good-bye at the train station and was sad to go so soon.

And I carried that warmth with me to Oxford, where I had one of the best camp-like experiences of my life and met more dear, dear people.

Because of the cathartic peace and stillness of that particular morning, some of my anxiety was calmed and my mind released its tensions for the rest of my time in England.

*I have to express my gratitude to Mark for allowing me to stay at his place in London. Not only was it helpful to me in that it made my first lone excursion across the pond familial and less overwhelming, but it also made London "real" to me, as opposed to it being the dream-like, Shakespearean wonderland that is portrayed when one stays only in touristy parts of town. Plus, Mark is way fun! So, thank you Mark and Ilham for allowing me, without any hint of my being an inconvenience, to be "one more thing" on your overbooked agendas. Thank you for your generosity and complete kindness. Oh - and for showing me around your neck of the woods. Hi to the glorious green peas and kind people at Mr. Bagels!