St. Bartholomew, Flayed
I used to yearn to travel above all else. Wanderlust, when moored, is unavoidable for most I suppose. Now that I'm constantly rushed off my feet and crushed by jetlag from another flight, another train, another 5 AM call, I pine for the harbor. Away from the family, 747-8, A380, 737, London, Milan, Dallas, San Francisco back again.
When it rains, it pours; the grass is greener, and all that.
Yet, there are islands in the storm. Moments when time zones and wakefulness collude to allow moments of embarrassing privilege. So it was that I found myself unexpectedly ringing the marbles of the Duomo di Milano on a sunny morning in May.
I entered the Duomo, traded a few euros for the photos and wandered down the nave. I paused before St. Bartholomew, the sun pouring through the glass unto the stone. The buzz from ristretto faded, the sun of spring receded, the din of the crowd vanished, and I was back in late December leading Oliver by the hand to the crypt, the scents and sounds of the Christmas market upon the plaza not far behind.
How strange and wonderful to be back in this spot, impossibly far from home. Stranger still, I wondered at the random walk. Spin the wheel, when will Valerie and Oliver and Henry be back? Will we be together? Who will they be when the day comes? Will it come?
Whether moored or adrift, before the Duomo or down the street, I hope we're all so lucky to appreciate more moments than not before moribund, before rushed away once again with the madding crowd.