Restless Heart

About a mile north of my apartment stands the largest cathedral in the world, the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine. It is magnificent and beautiful and unfinished and fire-damaged and crumbling all at the same time.I have taken to visiting Mme. la Cathédrale frequently in the last few weeks. This is a little pilgrimage for me, not a very difficult one, though it is dreadful hard to pass the Hungarian Pastry shop without stopping in for a walnut macaroon. I am not making my way on my knees. I am not on crutches. I am not born on a litter and let down on ropes through the roof. I am just walking a few blocks through a bustling neighborhood to a big church on a hill (Morningside Heights) in a garden (the Cathedral Close). The pull to go there is strong, even though I know that officially-designated temples are not the only holy places. My apartment, my neighbor's apartment, the stage in any given venue, and the subway are all holy places. Perhaps there is no such thing as a place that is NOT sacred. God is everywhere. Churches are just buildings. I know this. I have touristed through hundreds of them.

Still, when I am there, up on the hill, it is easier for me to access the place in my heart where God resides, or at least the space I am trying to keep open. Let me tell you the big secret I discovered this afternoon - that particular Cathedral is also a small room, an intimate embrace. I feel like I am sitting on her knees, and she is whispering stories to me that tell of many things, including where I came from and where I am going, and that I do not go alone.