On Saturday, we went to Canterbury. Redy to wenden on pilgrimage and all that. But we went by train. And it was really more a family daytrip. The Spouse and I, Beangirl and Blue and my own aged parents.
Train is a great way to travels. Comfortable, scenic and supplied with tables for coffee – pretty ideal, if you ask me. A much, much easier place to parent than in a car. There’s space on a train to let the children stretch their legs and available washrooms to boot.
Canterbury is an hour and a half from London, and we started early. One bus, two tube trains to the station – a real train station, Mummy? So we can look outside? – a bit of a slog early in the day with all of us still waking up but the organized Spouse got us all there with time enough to spare to buy coffees and newspapers. I was on coffee duties, so pastries appeared, too. Sadly, no sugar for the Spouse’s cup. But, as always, he was forgiving, and we soon all settled in for the trip through Kent’s green fields.
We were heading for Canterbury Cathedral – as ancient as you ca get in the UK, dating back to 597AD when St Augustine, sent by Pope Gregory the Great as a missionary, established his seat in Canterbury. And, of course, Thomas Becket’s own church and the site of his murder in 1170. It is an active church today, and was closed in the morning on Saturday for an ordination ceremony. I would have loved to be inside, to see that faithful and continuing witness in such a place of ancient tradition. But this time, we were with the tourist hordes instead.
The kids didn’t give me a lot of time for historical soaking-in. It’s probably a complete impossibility to balance a guidebook, a marching five year old, a curious two year old and a stroller. They did ask a lot of questions, though, which was great. We looked at the stained glass windows together, and the ancient tombs. We thought about the people who had been there before. Beangirl noticed that most of the memorials were for men, which made me notice, too. Blue noticed ramps and staircases.
So we went down to the crypt.
There is a sculpture that hangs there, floating. It is a body, or the outline of a body, made from fine mesh, and this mesh is pierced by nails, some pointing in, some out. It marks the place of Thomas Becket’s first tomb, a quiet underground space where arches support a low ceiling and chairs are arranged in a circle where you might gather for prayers. The Spouse came up behind us and claimed Blue in the stroller, so Beangirl and I had a chance to sit together quietly, looking up at the form for quite a while. Last week at our church, we’d read 1 Corinthians 12 about the church being a body together, and she thought that might have something to do with this body in the church. After a while, the Spouse found us there, and he pointed out a small sign that had some more details about the sculpture.
It’s called Transport, and was created by Antony Gormely. The sign said that the nails come from the cathedral, removed during recent reroofing. Some of Gormley’s words were also recorded on the sign:
‘The body is less a thing than a place; a location where things happen.’
Thinking about Thomas Becket, this is an intersection of the personal and political. Becket was a place where the forces of English history changed. But for us living less pivotal lives, our bodies are still geography.
A place where things happen.
Love.
Mothering.
Heartbreak.
Comfort.
Meals.
Even our most abstract, intellectual thoughts are intrinsically linked to our bodies and their location. Aside from the whole physically neurological side of things, there is the table in front of you, the paper and the pen, the feel of the room around. Outside the window, it is bright or cloudy, there is rain or wind or stillness or the sun comes through the glass. We are aware of these things, or we escape them for a moment as another clarity flashes through. But the moment passes, as it always does, and we return to awareness of our bodies again. To the place where we are.
Things pass through this place. Like the nails of the sculpture, passing in and out. Like people in a building, coming and going. Like thoughts and feelings in our hearts.
Things pass. Children grow. Parents age. Days pass. We learn to let go.
