The Dots Are Starting to Connect

I lamented in a previous blog post about how I have spent a lot of time racking my brain, trying to figure out what the purpose of my time in London last year was.  I referenced Steve Jobs who said, "You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.  So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in the future.  You have to trust in something -- your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever."   Consequently, when I went back to London last month for a couple of weeks, I decided to not overanalyze and over plan, and just do what I was drawn to do each day.  One of those days, I took pictures of the Tower of London and then walked across Tower Bridge to get to Borough Market.

As I walked through the heart of the gritty Bermondsey neighborhood, I wandered down one small, curving street after another -- hopeful that I was still basically headed in the direction of Borough Market.  I ran into a little pub on a corner and started taking some photos of it.  As I was moving around, getting different angles of the pub -- I spotted a van parked on the street and saw that inside the van were shelves full of books.

I walked over to the van, and it turns out it was a mobile library run by Quakers.  I started talking to Simon, one of the men who ran the mobile library, and he told me that they made a couple of runs each week.  That morning they were serving the Manna Centre, a nonprofit that provides food and resources for homeless people.  While I was talking to Simon, I noticed a man observing our conversation.

After I ended the conversation with Simon, the other man introduced himself -- David -- and asked if I wanted to walk with him for a couple of minutes to go see a nearby urban garden that had a little shared, "honor" library in it.  He told me the name of the garden, but I couldn't quite understand him.  Now, I know many of you may be thinking -- stranger danger! -- but here's the thing, I am confident in my gut feelings about whether I can trust people or not.  And I felt sure about my gut feeling to trust David, and I felt drawn to go see this urban garden with him.

As David and I walked to the garden, I asked him about his life.  I don't feel comfortable retelling it here -- as it's his private story -- but needless to say, he has had a great many disadvantages in his life.  And yet now, he is firmly back on his feet.  I found myself asking him, "But how did you get back up on your feet?  People who have gone through much lesser challenges can't get back up on their feet?"  He responded quietly, kindly, "The thing is, when most people say, 'I can't,' what they mean is is, 'I won't.'"

As we got closer to the garden, David told me more about it -- that it had been a dilapidated cut-through in a less than desirable area, but that a group of people and organizations, including well known architects and gardeners, had transformed it into a shared garden space.  I asked him to repeat the name of it -- and he said it was called, "Gibbons Rent."  The name sounded familiar but I couldn't quite place it.

When we came to the garden, David walked me through it and pointed to the parts that he had contributed and the pieces he had built himself.  As we were leaving the garden, I realized that when I was in London last year -- I had attended a panel discussion at the British Library about gardens in the Georgian era.  One of the speakers on the panel was a world renowned landscape gardener named Sarah Eberle, and she talked about how she had used gardens as a tool to revitalize urban areas.  One of her projects had been Gibbons Rent. I watched David walk back to the Manna Centre, and I smiled to myself.  Because I knew the dots were starting to connect.

London Through Her Eyes

Last month, I was fortunate enough to spend a couple of weeks in London, and whenever I'm there, it's hard for me to not think about my mom. I wandered around the Bloomsbury neighborhood.  In and out of little, locally owned shops.  A gourmet deli.  A home goods shop.  A small bookstore.  I know if my mom had been with me, she would have gone on and on about E.M Forster and Virginia Woolf and other members of the Bloomsbury Group, and as I thumbed through the small bookstore, I longed to hear what she thought about the authors represented there -- Ruth Adam, Katherine Mansfield, Winifred Peck and more.

She would have loved having tea at The Goring.  She would have admonished me to sit up straighter.  But she also would have delighted in the waiter's Scottish accent and his description of the crayfish salad as "the Queen Mother's favorite."

She would have made sure that we allotted an entire afternoon to shop at the Liberty London department store.  She would have gone straight to the haberdashery department and would have smiled with child-like glee at all the fabrics and buttons and ribbons.

She would have grown quiet in St. Paul's Cathedral as she looked at the Honour Roll -- a book that honors Americans who were killed on their way to or were stationed in Great Britain during World War II.  Each day a member of St. Paul's clergy turns the page so that a new set of names can be displayed.  I can count on one hand the number of times I saw my mom cry, but I know she would have teared up after viewing the book.  But she's not here to see the book or the tea or the fabrics.  So instead, in one of the Cathedral's private chapels, I light a candle for her.

I Could Have Been an Axe Murderer

One time during my time in London, I went out to the English countryside and visited the Queen’s personal residence at Sandringham.  After I finished the tour, I hopped on an afternoon train back to London and as the doors were closing, I heard a voice call out, “Is this train going to London?”  I turned around, nodded reassuringly and said yes.  The two women, Darlene and Susan, were around my mother’s age, looked relieved and sat down across the aisle from me.

I started up a conversation with them – because let’s be honest, I’ll talk to a wall.  But also because, even in an English speaking nation, it was nice to talk to someone from America.  They told me that they were visiting Darlene’s daughter who was studying abroad in London and making a girl’s trip out of it.  They asked me what I was doing in London, and I said quite frankly, that I didn’t know.  We started talking about our families, and it became clear my parents were no longer living and then I said, “I’m in London because I just needed some time and some space.” 

As we got off the train, Darlene invited me to dinner with them that evening – to meet her daughter who was studying abroad and the other woman with whom they were traveling, Mary Alice.

I went to dinner with them that evening and met Mary Alice and a couple of days later, visited Windsor Castle with them.  As we parted ways, we talked about me visiting them in Philadelphia after I got back from London.  Darlene offered for me to stay in her house.  I have to admit, it is not in my personality to take someone up on that kind of offer if I don’t know them incredibly well.  But something in me said to just do it. 

A couple months later in January, I visited them in Philadelphia.  Susan and Darlene picked me up at the airport.  They had made dinner for me when we got back to Darlene’s house – a rustic and delicious cauliflower soup. The next day, Mary Alice and Susan came over to Darlene’s house and we set off exploring museums and historic houses during the day.  That evening we had a charming dinner at a restaurant on Rittenhouse Square.

On the way back from dinner, we all joked about how I didn’t know Darlene terribly well before this trip and yet I was staying at her house and for all she knew I could have been an axe murderer.   Darlene laughed and said, “I knew it would be fine.”

When Darlene and I got back to her house, we sat at her kitchen table and started looking at pictures from her family’s travels over the years.  I came across some photos of when Darlene looked to be about my age.  In the picture, she was in Greece sitting next to her now husband.  I asked Darlene about the trip and she began to tell me how she had a somewhat similar situation as me when she was my age – with parents being sick and needing to get away.  And so she too took a trip around the world.

A few months after that, I received an email from Darlene that she was coming to Kansas City for a work conference and could we get together.  Of course I said yes and we had a wonderful dinner catching up at Westside Local.

I still marvel at Darlene’s invitation on the train.   That generosity of spirit.  Of knowing me for only a couple of hours and saying come meet us for dinner tonight.  Come meet my daughter.  Come to a West End show with us tomorrow night.  Come to Windsor Castle with us the next day.  Well, it’s a generosity of spirit I hope to carry with me forever.

*Check out Darlene, Susan and Mary Alice’s Etsy shop: Eva, Elsie and Ella 

London's Macintosh Typefaces

It’s been over two months since I left London and came back home to Kansas City.   I’ve asked myself over and over again, “What was the point of my time in London?”  I haven’t figured it out yet.  I am reminded of the Steve Jobs anecdote about how he dropped out of Reed College, and then for the pure fun of it, audited several calligraphy classes there.  Years later, these calligraphy classes became the foundation of Mac computers’ typefaces.  So perhaps I will discover the purpose in the years to come.

  

When I was in London, I had all these grand plans for side trips throughout Europe: Barcelona, Vienna, Copenhagen. But I fell in love with London.  I fell in love with the rows of tiny chimneys atop the townhouses, with the Capability Brown designed parks, and with the winding streets that revealed a bit more of the city with each turn.  I fell in love with my long walks along the Thames, with the electrifying theater of the West End and with the inspiring programming at the V&A.

  

And I fell in love with the English countryside too.  The rolling hills of Yorkshire, Derbyshire and Lincolnshire; dabbled with white sheep and their little black faces; each view more beautiful than the next.  But most of all, I fell in love with the quiet politeness of England.  A country so thoroughly courteous and thoughtful, that I hope it stays with me forever.

  

This is London

View from my apartment window at dusk.

Since I've been in London I've insisted on experiencing London everyday.  I've been motivated by an underlying concern that I can't waste the opportunity of being here.  The weather in London has provided me no excuses to stay in and just be quiet, as the usually rainy weather has been unusually sunny.  So every day I march out and see a sight or do something London-y.

But a couple of days ago, the rain finally came, and I was relegated to sitting in my apartment all day.  I cleaned, organized and read until there was nothing left to do.  I found myself sitting on my couch, just staring at the rain, and then through the rain at the spire of the V&A, the rows of little chimneys, and the steeple of the couple-hundred-year-old church a block over.

After the rain passed, the clouds cleared, and a little bit of sun peaked out before it went down.  I realized that this, too, was living in London.  And I couldn't help but think how very fortunate I am to be here for all of it.

Columbia Road Flower Market

This past Sunday, I went to the Columbia Road flower market in northeast London.  It was a bit of a hike from where I'm staying, but well worth it.  I always enjoy discovering new parts of a city, and this area was lively, diverse and had real heart to it.  The flower market is held every Sunday and is about two or three blocks long.  The market is lined with dozens of stalls, and it is packed to the gills with people!  

I loved this guy.  Full of laughter and constantly moving -- and could you just die for his outfit?!

This seller kept yelling, "OMG! Lilies for a fiver!"  He was a crowd favorite and sold lots of plants.

This young girl was sweet and well-mannered.  She quietly offered flowers and quietly took people's payments.

Peonies are a hugely popular item at the flower market.  Nearly every flower stall sold large amounts of them.  Most of the peonies were the lighter pink color -- but there were some white and magenta ones as well.  Everywhere I looked, it seemed that someone was carrying away a bunch of them.  By 12:30, one stall already was sold out of peonies!

If they run out of peonies, just buy a tree.