29 October, 2013

I made the Channel crossing from Portsmouth last night on the Brittany Ferry, MV Normandie. I haven’t ever been on a ship this size – 161 meters long, displacing just over 27,500 tonnes. While I missed the epic storm of Sunday night, the seas were none too calm last night. It was interesting walking around as the ship pitched and rolled. I was reminded of nights in the life I used to live; last night, however, the floor actually was moving around under me. The ship docked at Ouistreham and I disembarked in the predawn light. I took a bus to the Gare SNCF (train station) in Caen, and then a train to the small city of Bayeux, where I am currently in a laundromat as I write.

On the shuttle across the ferry terminal to the boat

My cabin aboard MV Normandie

On the top deck heli-pad, crazy windy hair

Spinnaker Tower, Portsmouth, UK

Old harbor front buildings, Portsmouth, UK

Looking back at London, I can say I am glad to have had the experience of my four nights there, but if nothing else, it has confirmed once again that I am just not a city person. London is big, and busy. Very crowded streets, sidewalks and trains. Too many people for me. However, unlike when I left Paris in the summer of 1998, I can’t sit here today and say that I want to go back. I am sure that I will, there are many things that I didn’t see while I was there, but it will be a few years.

It was very moving to visit sacred spaces of Westminster Abby and St. Paul’s Cathedral. This journey seems to be centered around visiting places sacred and holy. It was pointed out to me last week that three times I have claimed here to not be a religious man, yet I visit these magnificent churches as much for prayer and meditation as for the history and architecture. After reflecting on this (in prayer and meditation, of course) for several days, I think I must revise and/or qualify that statement. I feel that I am a deeply spiritual man of great faith, ever seeking to improve my connection with the divine and experience of the numinous. I do not, however, subscribe to the dogmas or rituals of an organized religion. I attended Anglican services twice over the weekend in London: A choral service called Evensong at Saint Paul’s, and an evening service at Westminster Abbey. At St. Paul’s I was able to sit in one of the ornate quire seats near the high altar, and it was very magnificent to hear the space filled with music and song. At Westminster Abbey, it was a spoken service and the address was on varying perspectives in interpretation of the scriptures, which was very thought provoking. I enjoyed contemplating the message while soaking in the feeling of the space which has been holy for so many hundreds of years. I was an acolyte in the Church of England when I was young, and while I appreciate the Episcopal Church’s progressive stand on social issues, the church is still a little too close to Catholic in its rituals and tradition for my taste. I cannot confine the God of my understanding to the walls of a church, one day a week, or the tangible form of one man. In truth, my understanding is that God is completely beyond my understanding and is an integral part of all existence. As was told to Moses on the mountain, God is “all that which is” and cannot be named. I will continue to visit these holy sites on my journey, using them as powerful places for prayer and meditation – there is great energy in these places. I will also continue to walk in the light and live in the kingdom as I ever pursue my own spiritual growth.

Beyond all of that, I was impressed by both of these places for entirely different reasons. I am much more an aficionado of all stages of the Gothic than the late Renaissance Classical Revival and Baroque. Saint Paul’s is beautiful, no doubt, but to me the style’s simple shapes with heavy lines and lavish adornment leaves me wanting and somewhat unimpressed. The Gothic’s evolution as a structural form based on the harmonies and intervals of sacred geometry and music stir me at a deep level. Even without color or gilding, the slim, simple lines provide exquisite illustration of the function defining the form.

Today I am very happy to be writing while I sit atop a washing machine in a small French town. After the last two weeks of riding the privatised and expensive networked rails of England, it was wonderful to board a sleek, modern Alstom Intercite for a smooth and quick ride from Caen to Bayeux on the nationalized rails of SNCF (Societe Nationale de Chemin de Ferre – Socitey National of the Iron Horse). Walking around the town to the laundry and back this afternoon, it was so nice and calm after five days in London.

I have come to Normandy for several reasons, one in particular I don’t fully understand. This town is home to the eponymous Tapestry (which is really an embroidery) depicting Norman victory at the Battle of Hastings in 1066. I plan to try to see it tomorrow, as well as the Museum of the Invasion.

Bayeux is at the heart of, and is the called the Porte d’entree to the D-Day Beaches. Nearly seventy years after the Occupation and Liberation of the town in WW II, there is still evidence of the conflict in the streets here. Walking to the city center today, I could see patched stonework around windows and doors showing evidence of firefights in the streets as American forces fought to take control of the village and its important road and rail links. I saw at least one building with two distinct ages of masonry evidencing the partial destruction and rebuilding of the structure. The history of the invasion is also part of why I am here. I am a student of human history – the arts and humanities, the philosophies and spiritualities, the conflicts and wars. The invasion of Omaha Beach in particular is the reason I am here that I don’t fully understand. For many years I have wanted to visit this region of Normandy. In 1998, I was close – Rouen – but somehow knew that I didn’t have the time or maturation. When I started planning this trip, Normandy was apparent as a destination. I have known two things about coming here. I had to approach the region from the water, and I need to walk in the surf on the hallowed ground of Omaha Beach before visiting the American Cemetery that sits at the top of the seaside bluff. Places Sacred and Holy. I do not have any family connection to the invasion, so the reasons for this strong desire – need – to carry my journey here in this manner are not self-evident. Perhaps it will be clear to me when I get there, maybe I will never understand. I don’t know what the tour I have signed up for on Thursday will reveal within me. It has been suggested to me by two people whose guidance and intuition I trust, that perhaps I was there on 6 June, 1944. That in a previous incarnation I died in that surf, never making it across the beach or up the hill beyond. Perhaps it is my duty in being here to deliver a part of my soul across the sands to that now sacred and eternally hallowed ground where my fellow countrymen lie silently in eternal rest. I plan to visit the Cathedral tomorrow morning and pray, asking for knowledge and guidance around the reasons and the journey that has brought me here. More, I hope, will be revealed.

Cathedral de Bayeux

I am long on words and short on pictures tonight, having many thoughts and just a few snapshots from the crossing. Thank you for reading, thank you for following. What I originally thought would be just a journal to record my experience on this journey, and perhaps share with a few people, has gotten much more traffic than I anticipated. My site statistics show that in the three weeks I have been traveling and posting here, there have been nearly 1000 page views from people in eleven different countries around the world. Eighteen of you have subscribed to follow, and I do not know the majority of you personally. I am humbled by the numbers and the comments and feedback I have received. Thank you all.

Bon nuit.