Sunday morning

I like London when the sun has not yet come up, when the streets are a Saturday night massacre of glass and broken umbrellas. It is the city’s one quiet hour, when the drunkards have given out at last and the workers are not yet on the move and Mayfair might as well be a catacomb, and you drink in the calmness the poets call the darkness of God.

I like London when dawn breaks, when the light seeps in through the stained glass shards that glow with Benedictine whiteness, and the kingship of Christ comes upon you like a grace note that breaks the novices’ voices as their souls sing higher than their bodies can. It is the city’s most heavenly hour, when you rise to the peak of divine awareness and are poised in perpetual plié as if waiting for cosmic permission to begin dancing.

I like London when the morning begins, when Hyde Park lights up green with glossy frost and runners are the first to make the city move, when the buses begin to run normally again and the cafés welcome Sunday’s early risers. It is the city’s most peaceful hour, when the world is at its softest and most inviting, when everyone smiles at you on the street because their day could not possibly have been ruined yet.

Maybe that is how healing works. It is not a matter of revelation so much as taking a walk in London on the right Sunday morning.

Published by Catherine Addington

I am a translator from Spanish to English and a writer on saints, myths, and icons in both religious and secular contexts.

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