1977... Arundel, Sussex, England

Just having started taking photos, I shot this one in my backyard not knowing what to expect. Normally, I shoot about 30-35 photos before I find one that stands out.  Needless to say when I saw this one, I was elated.   It brought back memories of an old village church I use to visit weekly while studying abroad in Sussex, England in 1977.

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Raised Roman Catholic, I never enjoyed formal church service.  I preferred to sit among the iconic images and breathtaking stained glass windows alone.  It was a two mile walk from campus, down country roads and rolling pasture filled with grazing cows. It was my very own pilgrimage.  Every Wednesday morning about midday, I'd put my boots and hat on; grab a bottle of water and my sunglasses and leave to amble along at whatever pace I chose.  Once I rounded the forked bend in the road and spotted the rambling hedge grove, it was but a few more feet until I was welcomed by age old gravestones and the spirits of those buried there.   My pace quickened, but once I stepped onto the stone walkway, I was free to bask in the spring crocus and daffodils that bordered the path and the tall trees with their new green buds.  Miniature rose bushes grew on trellises lining the side wall.  Come summer, baby pink and yellow blooms would welcome both parishioner and stranger alike.

For now, I was the stranger who came to find peace in a church built out of stone in the 1500's.  The huge antique walnut door with cast iron hinges creaked as I entered the chapel; the pews were stained dark brown, old and worn.  I vacillated towards the middle of the chapel or to the right where the votive candles stood.  Before leaving I would light several and ask God to watch over me, but for now, I sat breathing in the cool air, admiring the chapel's beauty, and wondering who sat in this very pew four hundred years ago.  Everywhere I turned history abounded.  There was a sense of reverence that I felt nowhere else in the world.  Peering at the Stations of the Cross that littered the walls and statues of saints with notes left at their feet, I searched for words, but instead peered above the altar at God.  Mother always said that the eyes were windows to the soul.  I didn't have to say a word; He already knew what lay on my heart.