The Abbey, UK

 

Stepping out of the St. James Park railway station in the center of London, I cringe against the crisp evening air and tighten my coat while lively navigating the crowd of people to avoid being trampled.  As I reach the top of Tothill Street, I glance down the street to where the Great West Entrance and the bell towers of Westminster Abbey peek out from behind the cement buildings, and smile.

 

The Abbey has always been my favorite place for my own personal, private form of worship.  I slowly meander down Tothill Street and, as I get closer, a sense of calm washes over me.  Catching a lucky break in traffic on Victoria Street, I hasten my steps across the road and walk past the west bell towers reaching hundreds of feet into the sky and beautifully garnished with carvings of angels and ornate designs, to the north entrance.  The Flag of St. Peter flies high above the royal blue and gold clock which festoons the left of the two towers and always runs a few minutes ahead of my watch.  I continue down the path in awe; never failing to be amazed by the giant stained glass rose window and the intricate carvings gracing the architecture over the north entrance. Every time I see Westminster Abbey, it’s like the first time.  Upon entering, the lofty Abbey ceiling radiates with light from amber chandeliers and the waning sunshine beams in through the elaborate stained glass windows on every wall.

 

Almost immediately, I find myself lost in the ambiance of the inspiring collection of markers paying homage to the dead, the deafening hum of the tourists talking and the symphonic ballads of the organ music.  It seems as if every square inch of the over 1000 year old structure, including the floor, has been filled with carvings of sonnets, marble statues, grave markers, memorials, quotes and remembrances of all kinds.  I go directly to the same place within the Abbey every time I visit – the last row of the pews adjacent to the area in the South Transept known as Poet’s Corner.  This area of the Abbey has become the location of choice for burials and memorials of authors, actors, composers, artists, poets, and playwrights.  Author Geoffrey Chaucer was the first buried here and now, illuminated by two methodically crafted stained glass windows on the east wall, this area gives final resting to hundreds.

 

I walk over the black and white checkerboard tile, between the sanctuary and the High Altar on my left and the Quire and Organ Gallery on my right, to sit in my usual spot.  I close my eyes and take a deep breath in – this being a ritual part of my visit – while I imagine myself becoming a part of the Abbey with all five senses.  With eyes closed, I hear the quiet murmur of the tourists as they walk the visitor paths they paid to tour while the tranquil organ music echoes through the Abbey.  I open my eyes to regard the beautiful statues and engravings adorning each pillar and wall and then take from my bag my literary selection for the week.  I started my own private tradition over the years where I pick a different person from Poet’s Corner every week then spend time in the local library finding something written by whomever I selected.  I bring something by the author or artist I’ve chosen each week and immerse myself in my selection. I have been through the list of burials and memorials at least once but just continue on, repeating the ones I liked the most.

 

One of the many reasons I love Westminster Abbey is not just because it is a sanctuary well steeped in history, but because it is also renowned for it’s’ music.  The Choir of Westminster sings every day in full dress and, on each day, Evensong begins at 5:00 pm.  Around 4:50 pm, the selection of adults and young men shuffle in and take their places in the Quire, behind where I always sit.  When their singing began in soft, even, melodic tones, I close my eyes, as I did upon arrival, and let the sound of their harmonious voices infiltrate my very core.  When the Choir finishes, I open my eyes and read one paragraph or poem or sonnet, out loud, but quietly to myself, from my chosen book thereby concluding every one of my visits to the Abbey.  I exit the Abbey the same way I entered, Victoria Street now shrouded in darkness, catch another lucky break in traffic and jog back up Tothill Street, back to St. James Park railway station. Each trip to Westminster Abbey fills me with peace and inspiration and a renewed sense of calm and strength.

About The Author:  Working as a Tax Accountant in Wheat Ridge, Colorado, Sheryl Ricigliano enjoys spending her free time with her husband, three children, traveling and writing.

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