timeless moments

I opened my eyes, and rolled over to check my clock, certain that I had mere minutes before my alarm went off. Nope. Five A.M. Why was I awake this early? The only time all year my 8 A.M. class was cancelled, and here I was, wide awake even before the sunrise. What a waste of a Friday morning. All week, I envisioned sleeping for a glorious extra hour before my next class. But it wasn’t meant to be.

I closed my eyes again and lay very still, hoping that I would drift to the space between sleeping and waking for the rest of the time I had left. No luck—I wasn’t even drowsy. Slowly, the pale beginnings of the sunrise crept in. I parted my curtain just enough to let the early morning light fall across my half of the room. My roommate slept soundly, and so I reached for my copy of The Complete Poems & Plays of T. S. Eliot. I lovingly fingered the pages as I meandered through the poetry, careful to keep loose leaves in place. A few pages from “Burnt Norton” and “East Coker” had broken off entirely, though I had only owned the book since January. I like to think its worn condition resulted from being loved too well, but perhaps cheap binding had a role to play in its premature demise.

Years of reading by flashlight and streetlight had trained my eyes for dim conditions, and so I turned to The Four Quartets, my homework assignment for the week, and began to read movement by movement, book by book, in hushed voice:

A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England…

***

I dropped my bags by the nearest bed I saw. The days had been so long and weary. England had been everything I dreamed it would be, but on this night I found myself a little tired of living out of a suitcase. Weak heating in the bedrooms detracted from the rustic charm of Little Gidding, despite strategically placed space heaters and closed doors. My bones ached from the bustle of the city. Anyone who believes, like Samuel Johnson, that people who “tire of London tire of life” must not value peace and quiet very much. My harried soul craved rest. I fell asleep more quickly that night than any previous night on the trip.

I woke to complete stillness and cool winter light. I tried to roll over and go back to sleep for a few precious minutes, but to no avail. The two other girls in the room were still fast asleep, and I wished, not for the first time, that my body wouldn’t always wake up before its time. But then it occurred to me—we had arrived at Little Gidding long after dark, and we only stayed inside. “What must the outside look like?” I wondered.

The curtains hung over the window to block the waking light. I slipped behind them, and my breath caught in my throat. Beauty. Pristine natural beauty. Unbroken snow lay across the fields. I could see for miles without a single housing development or building blocking my view. The sun rose in pastels, shades of baby blue and pink. One lone tree stood, reaching naked branches to the skies; a solitary blackbird glided through the scene. I looked down to see tracks of all kinds—rabbits and some kind of bird—and a huge, pigeon-type bird I’d never seen before. I peered beyond the frozen glass and fixed my gaze on the horizon. I don’t know how long I stood there, but those moments of quiet simplicity nourished my soul more than days of manmade grandeur.

I cannot remember whether that day at Little Gidding fell on a literal Sunday. Regardless, it was my Sabbath. We did nothing that day but read poetry, drink tea, eat home-cooked meals, and wander around the English winter countryside. No tours, no deadlines, no trains. No TV, no internet, no phones. Time froze. Every few hours I would return to my place behind the curtain and refill my soul. The light changed with the passing hours, from cool blue to pale yellow, and finally a blazing vermillion sunset that sparkled off the snow. I knew it must be beautiful in the spring when the world would come alive; but I dared not imagine anything that could surpass that landscape, in that moment.

At the end of the day we took Holy Communion together; after conversation of grace around the fire, I returned to my bed. The room was warmer now, or maybe I had warmed from the inside out. In my last moments before sleep I reached into my backpack, and from the scarves and pamphlets I pulled my brand-new copy of The Complete Poems & Plays of T. S. Eliot. The trip culminated in a revelation this day: Somehow in the last semester, I had learned to love poetry. And so I read silently, pencil in hand:

Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing the laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality…

***

Time froze that morning at 5 A.M., just as it had that day in Little Gidding. I do not know how long I read, only that I whispered The Four Quartets in its entirety. And right as I got to the lines,

Quick now, here now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)…

I heard the sound of rain. A usual sound in northern Pennsylvania, so I thought nothing of it…until I looked out my window and saw that the sun still rose. Sun and rain—two of my favorite things, usually antithetical, existing in the same moment. Not only existing together, but enhancing one another.

I grabbed my ID, rolled up my sweatpants, and ran barefoot into the morning. The hard, frigid rain mixed with the warm air so that all was awash in a misty glow and the earth smelled sweet. Each rain drop served as a prism, magnifying the light that shone through it and brightening every color in jewel hues. The world sparkled.

The rain sped into a torrential downpour. By the time I reached the chapel doors, I was soaked through. I stepped inside and dripped a puddle of rain on the floor, marveling that the colors outside were more vivid even than those in the stained glass windows. I only stayed inside a few seconds to clear the rainwater from my eyes—who knew how long this moment would last?

I stopped at the bridge to watch the sun finish rising through the rain. As I soaked in the rain, the sunshine, the brilliant colors and the smell of the earth, the words of Gerard Manley Hopkins filled my heart with praise:

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow…
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

I returned to my dorm soaking wet, thoroughly exhilarated, actually grateful that my plans had been interrupted. The glory of that morning far outshone the sleep.

(written for ENGL 381: Creative Nonfiction.  Assignment: “At Peace with Beauty”.  copyright 2010)