Monday, June 4, 2018

Strolling down Peter's Hill

What am I doing here, in an early misty morning of spring. I'm lucky that there's no rain. I stand on the south side of Saint Paul's Cathedral, right at the top of Peter's Hill, in the middle of the paved semicircle. I feel the humidity floating in the air fighting the first warm particles announcing the slow arrival of new temperatures - the white petals fallen from the cherry trees support my theory. I admire  the white flowers of the cherry trees around me, the white facade of the temple, the white sky forever vast and high. The few pedestrians and buses at this time don't bother my connection with the void, with the beyond - which ever this is.

I turn my back to the temple, to the blossoming cherries and the white void. I start strolling down Peter's Hill with no regrets, along the ramp. Going down hill helps me to forget the past, my inexistent faith. I forget the void and look forward. I find three quiet mirror balls in my way that help me distort the view of the past and walk towards the future. However, I can't help looking back, the impressive dome of Saint Paul's tries to camouflage uselessly and stands dormant and clear against the white eternal cloud - the further you move away, the bigger it becomes, like any prohibition. Its sharp breast pointing up, as an icon of what really matters.

My soul seems lighter at every step, but my freedom stumbles upon that one banned to the skaters on every handrail. As I approach the river in the distance, the red brick facade of the old repurposed Bankside Power Station motivates my journey towards more colourful faiths - if only we could live faithless.

Half way down the hill, there is a long wooden bench - bit rotten in one side - looking towards my way. It helps the flaneurs in their reflections. I enjoy the break infused in freedom among city workers passing fast, looking down on their steps.

A zebra cross - some strange force keeps pausing my way forward away from the temple and its white tentacles. To the right, a giant walky-talky offering help like an emergency phone in the fire escape. On the other side of the road, the Salvation Army trying to recruit peasants shouting out nice offers of warm coffee and danish buns, but I ignore the kindness with my eyes fixed on the red bricks - if only they were yellow - on which you can now read: Modern art from around the world.

Finally the annunciation, the message, a meaning of life, an ecstasy beyond the HSBC gates.

My legs get to a steady pace over the river, on the Millenium Bridge. I greet Ben, the gum-painter, real people doing real things. The towers of the city on my left almost crumbling into the river. The high tide splashes small waves on the walls of the north bank reminding me of home. A flock of purposed-face joggers make the bridge wobble slightly. The doubt strikes my path again. White gulls hover over the river waiting for tourists to arrive with their left overs.

At the end of the bridge, the big erected tower of the Tate Modern raises in front of me, like the hidden sun, promising safety, empowering the warmth of a mindfulness existence.

The end of the bridge makes you turn back to where you came from, it makes you land on the south bank looking back but walking forward. The giant white breast has disappeared in a thick white mist. The smell of caramel-coated almonds in the making brings your smile down to earth, the white  coat of the birches brimming with green guide your way to the red entrance of the museum of modern art.

While I wait for the opening time, I observe the buskers getting ready for their performance. The river runs by. It still has that brown matt colour from this side.

1 comment:

  1. Bravo, bravo maestro. I enjoy the connection to the earth, to life. 💪🤙

    ReplyDelete