by Jeri Guevara
The calm comes to me at six in the evening.
Across my bedroom stood a church – St. Paul Parish – that would ring their bell loudly and religiously for a minute every day. Stopping myself from whatever I may be doing at that time, I would listen to the bong bong bong of it. Silently, I would reflect on everything and anything, yet they were nothing of importance to anyone but me. Trivial matters – what my day has been, why was I feeling that way? Why this? Why that? – of my life, of what was and what could’ve been. I was never the one to lament over things, but I had been doing that since I was eight, since the time we moved to our current house. It had been a ritual for me. Somehow, it would soothe me – to have nothing but the echoing of the large bell from the back of my head.
I would look out of my large, white-grilled, sliding window to my left, and see the glorious house of worship being framed by the area where the night and day meet. Vivid colours of orange, violet and dark blue would paint the sky. It will always be a magnificent sight. Every time it would seem like I am gazing at a still painting – a masterpiece that never fails to amaze me.
Even with its proximity, I had only been inside the chapel three times. The inside is not extraordinary (at least from my last visit). To be honest, the architecture is not exceptional. The church is painted shades of blue – worn down by the weather, time and activities held in it. It is enclosed by large, moss-covered, concrete walls; I find it amusing really, because churches are supposed to be open to everyone and anyone. Situated between two schools – between noise and disorder – the sincerity and solitude that the church emanate fight tooth and nail to stay afloat.
There’s something quite funny – ironic even – to find solace in this chapel. I had never been religious – never had been resigned to Catholicism because I grew up in a family who did not practice it. I was faithful, but not devout.
It’s rather poetic to find that that blue, Catholic Church has such influence on me, yet I feel detached to it. I had only grown to know its exteriors and I never knew how its clockworks operate – not that I want to.
My sacred place is quite easy to find, yet the magic it has over me would rarely appear. Seldom now do I see now those intense hues at dusk, as the gloomy clouds are always there to shower and darken everything.
To me, that chapel is my sacred place – but it could only give me peace the most when the church bell is ringing and time is frozen at the moment where no one can tell where the day ends and the night starts – only to be viewed from my bedroom window.
Originally posted by jeriguevara at Blog # 3 - My Sacred Place