Continuing thoughts about my recent four days in London:
Whenever I’m given the honorable opportunity to jump the pond to visit The Motherland (no, my mother was born in Pawtucket, Rhode Island), whenever I’m in London, I visit Saint Paul’s Cathedral.
A soothing place to be. Once I passed the inspection of my bags by a busy and hassled security guy or gal, once I paid my $18.00 per adult, once I passed by the guided tours (perhaps I stopped to listen for a while), once I made it by all that, the healing began.
I respectfully walked to the center, absorbing all I could see and hear. I sat and listened and waited. I bowed my head in prayer and then I stood and turned left. There’s a small chapel with a remarkable painting, William Holman Hunt’s The Light of the World. I left a contribution, bought a candle, lit it, and sat down in the appreciated peace. The painting illustrates Jesus knocking on an old garden door with no knob or latch. Often I feel I’m on the other side.
During this particular pond jump there was a temporary display down the hall from Mr. Hunt’s creation. There are several photographs and printed prose describing various immigrants who recently have arrived on British shores. As I stopped to read them I was surrounded by people entirely different from one another; immigrants all, even me.
I prayed for them too.
Writing heals. Writing helps me to open that garden door to my soul.
Saint Paul’s Cathedral is one of my healing places.
Enough
Eleanor Tatum 
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