Cathedral reflections
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| St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall |
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| Malmesbury abbey |
I have been asking myself why I find myself attracted to old churches and cathedrals, especially cathedrals. When visiting a new city, or returning to one I know well, sooner or later, I’ll need to check out a cathedral or two.
Is this an unguessed hidden desire for conversion? Don’t think so.
Or perhaps a challenge, an infiltration….again,no. I don’t (often) find myself cackling in old hag triumph.
Is it because both large cathedrals and smaller churches feel like very planned temple-caves…Ah, now there is a thought: entering great vaulted chambers of stone. The Mines of Moria, perhaps, or the Chambers of Erebor? The Hall of the Mountain King. Walking through stone forests. Castles also have that sense of a stone space and they exercise their own fascination for me but they hold a degree of intentional violence that can be off-putting. Of course, cathedral histories are rarely sedate themselves, but their initial intentions were perhaps less combative.
Partly, it is the atmosphere. The silence and the ability of a cathedral to swallow the noise of a group of excited tourists, say, without that distracting from the overall experience. And these places hold stories, personal stories: of campaigners, heroes, villains. Of the noble couple with their dogs asleep at their carved feet. Of the martyred saint. Of the lost explorer. Here their stories wait among their named stones: no judgement, just stories to read. To hear. There are bigger stories, too, bound into the stones with holes from musket shot in walls, with the legacy of competitive chapel building, with penances bought, prayers sold. Windows tell their own stories: biblical subjects and in their construction, there are tales of rivalries and changing technologies, replacements rallying communities, the glory of colour spilling into the heart of the cave.
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| St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall |
I come back again to silence and reflection. These are places where people gave thought to issues wider and deeper than themselves and the everyday issues of survival. Here they communed, commune, with their connection to the infinite. I may not agree with a lot of the conclusions they reached in such consideration: I have spent a lot of my life as someone who would not be approved of, generously forgiven perhaps, if I came creeping back, but the proud awareness of who, and what, and how, I am would not have been welcomed. Still wouldn’t be for some of these people around me as I wander. I know others wouldn’t care but I have a long memory and carry a legacy of accumulated damnations with me.
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| St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall |
But here I can sit and settle into that contemplative silence, can feel old stone shaped with love and skill. I can hear footsteps whispering on stone floors worn smooth by centuries. Here I can appreciate someone else’s wonder and find a connection to my own.
As I was writing this, I also spent some time at the Stones of Stenness on Mainland, Orkney. There birdsong falls like rain. There, there is a different connection. There, there is still silence, lying behind the showers of song. Here, being with the Stones is like meeting old friends and the greatest feeling is joy.
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| Stones of Stenness, Orkney |
CATHEDRAL
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| St Olaf, St Magnus Cathedral, Kirkwall |
They built a ship,
A tall ship of stone,
To sail our souls in,
With a crew of carved and painted saints
To set it on its way.
If I had a soul,
That ship could have brought me to pray,
With its power and grace,
But we are the soul-less, my kind and I,
The doors of Paradise closed to us,
You tell us.
Unwanted, unrepentant, disturbing,
The Fallen, the Doomed, the Damned.
The wind that fills your ship is song,
And those songs rise,
Bright birds flying,
Soaring,
To be trapped
Against the rafters and the slates,
But we are spirit,
And sing as spirit, not soul,
And the west calls us
To islands in the wide seas,
And a sunset beyond the edge of the world.
We leave these sinking ships
Behind.
This poem was inspired by St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall. Originally, it also grew out of a conversation in the hollow hills of Orkney’s chambered tombs but while the second voice began in faerie it could just as easily be me talking as the human that I am
