from: london fields

I knew what those days would look like. I knew my friend Michaela would have to work one of the days I was in London before we set off for the north. I just didn’t expect what I’d find.

By the time I woke up on her gray thread-worn sofa, I could hear Michaela and someone else bantering back and forth in the kitchen down the hall. The linoleum floors carried their voices and laughter filled me with heartache for home as the light poured through the front window. I’ve known Mich since we were in high school. Two years older than me, we became friends as my sister let me tag along with her to sleepovers and hang outs at her friends’ houses. 

I stumbled into the kitchen awkwardly scanning the shelves for signs of coffee in an unfamiliar place. Soon after, Mich threw her backpack over her shoulder, her flat mate headed up to work from home and I was left in the wake of their voices. 

Left with a blank slate in front of me, I found my landing spot for the day: a bakery next to London fields known for their pastries and for employing refugees in the city. I’m not sure what made me feel more kindred to the establishment: their croissants or their cause. They were known for their dialed in sourdough and lauded for employing and training refugees in the area. I slipped on my black sandals, tucked my book into a tote and set out for the park. 

As I walked through the neighborhood, people sat like scattered mushrooms outside of coffee shops and cafes, sprouting out of the streets. Having spent the last week or so in small towns dotting the coast of western England, I forgot the familiar city sight of strangers and the chaos of smells spilling out of storefronts. 

The park was full of mothers with their babes tucked into strollers with toys crammed into the bottom. Bikers sped past me as I consciously reminded myself to stay to the left, not the right if I wanted to avoid a full on collision with one of them. As I neared the street of my much anticipated destination, I saw people sitting at picnic tables in an alleyway with lights strung overhead. I whispered to myself in hopes the place I was going was just as cool. 

As I walked into the expansive bakery, a long butcher block counter contained a feast for my eyes. Picnic tables filled the back room – people tapped away on laptops while buried their faces in books of poetry and novelas. After ordering I crept to the back of the restaurant curious how far back it ran. Tall garage doors opened onto the alley I’d seen only moments ago, revealing the same jovial people I’d enviously seen.  I stalked out the only table with an outlet where a couple was readying to leave. I plugged in my phone, knowing I’d be out for most of the day and definite couldn’t leave my navigation up to my sense of direction. 

Time crept towards noon and as it did, the place filled up. Business meetings and tourists filled the tables around me with chatter of deadlines and smells of turkey and brie sandwiches. A small girl with chopped hair reminiscent of my own at her age walked out the door proudly holding a table number. Her mother, a mirror image of the girl, nipped at her heels scanning the horizon for a place to sit. I scooted to the corner of the massive table I sat at, suddenly feeling self-conscious of my rather large table choice. 

‘You can sit here if you’d like.’ I motioned to the area diagonal to my own. 

‘You sure? We don’t want to disturb your reading.’ 

I slid my book and journal to the left, reassuring the mother I was more than okay with their company. The mother quickly turned her attention back to her daughter Margot and asked her about their swim earlier. The two of them sketched out a colorful pool deck with floats and stick figure people on a fresh piece of printer paper.

Margot stared at my notebook as I scribbled quotes from the book I’d been reading on the lined pages. The mom and I chatted back and forth a bit about their life in London and my own back in the states before returning to our respective pages. Eventually I packed up my tote and set off for the park to call my sister but I couldn’t shake the sense of home I got from just one conversation with this mother and her Margot.

I thought about the countless conversations I’d had over the last week. The man on the train who was from Saudi Arabia, but was finishing his masters in Brighton Beach. The soft tempered German family who’d boarded the train in Bath and read children’s books to their son as green pastures rolled by in the window. The airbnb host in Plymouth, Julie, who embraced me upon arrival, and was so relieved I’d found my way to her cliff side chalet after my phone died and I had to rely on pieced together directions from strangers.

I had a soft landing for my time in England. My friend Sarah, from the states, had explored London with me the first two days before setting off for France, leaving me all by myself in a quaint rented room at a YWAM base. 

I was supposed to be in France. I was supposed to be getting on a plane and going with her, but instead I felt like I needed to stay where I was in England. Back in May when I’d decided to forgo the France plans but keep my ticket to London in June, I was confused. I had an undeniable sense of direction to England yet very little plans of where to stay, when and most importantly, why. One of those days I was sitting on a stool at church after a morning prayer time trying to hold back tears. My pastor sat beside me watching as the fear and uncertainty of my trip pushed my heart around like a bully on the playground. I didn’t want to leave Nashville. I wanted to stay in the rhythms we’d been establishing as a community. I wanted to keep living with the family I’d grown a part of the last few months. I wanted to come buy a coffee from Jacob on Tuesday mornings and spend Friday afternoons on walks watching the summer heat blur the pavement’s edge.

My pastor broke the record of thoughts spinning in my mind. ‘If I had my way, I’d rent you a cabin in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone service and make you go there for a few weeks.’ 

‘No!’ The words lept out of my mouth before I could wish them back in. I didn’t want to be alone. Just the thought of it set me on edge as I imagined all my creature comforts disappearing. I’d be left to untangle the knots built up from months of too little sleep and too many commitments. I’d be left to decide what I really wanted.

I knew he was right. I needed to learn how to be alone again – I’d forgotten. Once I found home by myself, I could find home with the Germans on holiday. With the Airbnb host living on the cliffs. I could offer home to the mom and her Margot drawing pictures of lido decks with bright colored crayons.