The Long and Winding Road, the Sanctuary, and Something Completely Different.

I love the time I spend with the kids, I really do. But it is important to take some time away from them during these trips if you can do so. It is an intense job so it is really good when you can figure out a way to do some adult stuff.

Joe, the other teacher on this trip with me, is a huge Beatles fan. As we walked back from our required visit to the London Eye he noticed that A Hard Day’s Night was playing at the British Film Institute the following day. He asked me if I wanted to join him. Me? See a movie? Absolutely!

I have often said that I would have considered living in England had things been different and I had remained single. The preferred alternative having occurred I never really gave it much thought outside of the casual reference every so often. However, this movie experience has forced to me to re-evaluate this concept.

There was no popcorn at this movie. No popcorn, no soft drinks, no candies and no insultingly obvious price-gouging. I then remembered that all we had on offer when I saw the last Harry Potter movie in Cannes a couple of years ago was a vending machine.

Quite frankly, this movie lover cannot abide living in such conditions.

Despite this hardship, we managed to make it to the cinema and enjoyed ourselves.

The movie wasn’t great, to be honest. The acting was sketchy, the plot was thinner than Twiggy (all you young people, look her up!), and the direction was spastic.

But it was a time capsule to a different era. Both Joe and I were left with a sense of melancholy. So much had happened with the Beatles since this had been filmed. So much water under the bridge. Seeing John Lennon and George Harrison at the beginning of their careers was a textured experience to be sure. Every once in a while you would see Paul McCartney stand a certain way at the microphone and it looked just as you imagine him in your mind’s eye.

Joe and I walked along the Thames and talked about the deaths of John and George, the marriages of Paul, and the acting chops of Ringo and agreed we felt a little older. I wasn’t born yet when this movie came out and Joe was just an infant, but this band had its mark on our generation. I have said before that I truly believe that John Lennon is as close to a prophet as we are going to get in these modern times.

But this movie was before Imagine and Yoko Ono and trips to India and George coming into his own. This movie was before the beards and the marijuana and the Blue Meanies and the (somewhat) amicable breakup. Seeing these fresh young men at the very beginning of their long and winding road connected us with a bygone era that may or may not have actually existed outside the media.

The next day, our last, Joe and I went to visit Abbey Road Studios. It was a pilgrimage for Joe and I felt privileged to have been able to bear witness to it. As we approached the intersection we started to laugh. A large group of people were taking turns posing at the crosswalk. They, of course, were imitating the famous Abbey Road album cover. I guess this had been going on for some time because horns began honking and a rather long line of vehicles had already gathered on each side.

We watched the action for awhile, marveling at the spectacle. Finally, Joe wanted to get up closer to the building itself. I asked him if he wanted to pose on the crosswalk but he said no. I let him walk on ahead and took photos of him crossing. I would later take photos of him as he walked up to the front door of the studio building and then walk back.

This was so much fun for me. Joe was so joyful and proud of himself for his audacity that I couldn’t help but get swept up in the moment. As we walked but to St. John’s Root Station we were buzzed with excitement and pure glee.

For a brief moment I thought of another Beatles fan. My brother Mark would have loved this afternoon in London.

After dinner we took the kids to see the tower of London. Afterwards I wanted to take them to a special place nearby that is not so famous. The church of St. Dunstan’s-in-the-East was bombed during World War II. Afterwards the rubble was clear and the remaining structure was reinforced. Today, it is an inner city garden that brings comfort and solitude and quiet and respite in a different way than it did for centuries. You sit within what was once the sanctuary and you find yourself within a beautiful and fertile garden bright with colour and drama. The hollow frames that once held stained glass let in the sunshine and the remains of the stone structure bring protection from the outside noises.

I talk to the kids about the renegotiating of sacred space in this beautiful place. A centre of worship that has centuries of tradition and continuity is destroyed in one night, but in its place is a new space that is just as spiritual, just as awe-inspiring as the one before. There is still sacredness in this space, I tell them. Hieros gamos can be found among the vines in the middle of downtown London, I assure them. This is still very much a sactuary. It is still a holy place.

Some of you have heard the story of my first visit to the Tower of London twenty years ago. My mother, who had died seven years earlier, had always wanted to see this historic building, so when I saw it my thoughts immediately turned to her. As a result of this I began to cry. A lot. In fact, I had to sit down on a bench and when I tried to collect my thoughts my sobs turned into that heaving, gasping, desperate cry we reach when we are at our most despairing.

When my mother died, I was living in Toronto and nobody I knew there had ever actually met her. When I returned home from the funeral I was working as an actor in a play and rehearsals took up about three months of my time. It was like her death had never happened. Seven years later, my failure to actually deal with my grief finally came to the surface. And it was messy.

An old woman eventually sat next to me and handed me tissues. You can imagine the sight as this dear, little lady sat next to a six foot man who was hunched over in tears. Not my most shining moment to be sure. I kept trying to apologise for my behavior and she kept tapping me on the knee.

“Better out than in, dear,” was the only thing she said to me. When I finally stopped and was able to see and speak again she was gone.

Shocked from this experience I staggered away from the tower and made my way down Great Tower Road. Feeling like I might be overwhelmed I ducked into a small street and stumbled into St. Dunstan’s Garden. It was in this place that I managed to fully recover myself.

I believe that this garden is a representation of hope growing out of the ruins of depair. Londoners took the loss of a church and turned it into a fertile and blooming reminder that life grows out of the ashes of despair. At least, that is what it means to me.

I would return to the tower and take part in the tour. I would also return home and deal with my grief at last. Because that is what we are all called to do when the time comes.

And this was the last thing I showed my kids in London.

On our walk back I straggled a little behind. After crossing Tower Bridge I saw the most amazing thing. In Potter’s Field Park, surrounded by onlookers, was an art installation that looked like a large blue parrot lying on its back.  While I thought it was so very odd I reminded myself that I asked the kids to meet under the giant blue rooster statue in Trafalgar Square (part of a revolving art exhibit). So odd was not so unusual in London.

It wasn’t until later that I realized what I had seen. London was celebrating the Monty Python Reunion activities and what I saw was the Norwegian Blue Parrot, with its beautiful plumage, sleeping in Potter’s Field Park.

Or maybe it was just stunned. Or pining for the fjords. Or….something.

Anyway, I made it back home to pack before things got too silly.