Senses

I had the opportunity to spend a semester in York, England in the spring of 2014. For one of my classes, I was required to spend time in specific place for at least thirty minutes per week and write a journal entry. During one particular week, I wrote about experiencing my place, York Minster, with all of my five senses. This is the result.

It’s cold in the Minster, as usual.

The chairs are temporarily cleared from the nave, and the expanse of the white ceiling seems to stretch even farther and longer than it does when the rows of honey-colored seats occupy the sanctuary. It’s a sunny afternoon, quarter to two, and the stained glass windows let in colorful rays of light, painting the floor with rich colors, soft colors. I stand in the middle of the cathedral, waiting for my shadow to follow me as I carefully walk across the giant stones of the floor.

Musky, like a blanket that has been sitting in the closet all spring and summer and is pulled eagerly from the shelf at the first sign of frost. Dusty, old. No sign of mold or dampness, though, only a dry, chilly sensation that reaches my eyeballs when I breathe in. A little bit of sunshine creeps up my nose, that delightful smell of sunshine that enchants the mind and the heart. I walk past a group of tourists and the scent of at least three different perfumes mixes with the heady, syrupy smell of the wood in the Quire.

I reach out and touch the stone pillars that secure the roof of my place. Cool, cold even. Not slippery, but soft. Smooth. Strong.

I feel the way my boots tread on the floor, making gentle scuffing sounds. I dodge some uneven ground. I sit down against the stone wall in a stone seat. I turn to remove my backpack from my shoulders. Something catches my eye. Letters, the end of a name, the end of a place. A date: 1640. I run my fingers over the numbers, three hundred and seventy-four years old. The grooves are shallow, but I have never touched anything so deep. My mind spins. I look around to see if anyone has noticed my revelation. I quickly sit back, protecting the discovery from any unappreciative eyes, as the wall in turn protects me from the same.

I taste the leftover, stale mint of this morning’s toothpaste. It’s bitter. It’s a strange juxtaposition, the sweetness of the Minster mingled with my dry humanity. I sit longer, hearing whispers, footsteps, here a laugh, there a pair of high-heeled boots. A quiet muddle of noise.