This past Friday evening, I walked into the city to see an adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird at the York Theatre Royal on St. Leonard's Place. I first read the book when I was teaching at Farmington High School, and a colleague of mine, Russ Crist, was surprised that I had never before read Harper Lee's classic. So he gave me a copy of the book, and I read it with my lower jaw hanging off my face the entire time.
Among other things, I had the distinct impression that a question had been answered in my heart.
Namely: What does it mean to be a good man?
Atticus Finch was my answer. When I read the book for a second and then, recently, a third time time, I saw more and more to the character of Atticus Finch.
But walking into the center of the city where I live to see a real, live Atticus recite the lines which have been committed to my heart was an expedience unlike any previous play or movie had offered. The streets into the center were calm, and the occasional car whizzed past, but mostly the quiet, cool air encouraged me to think deeply and wonder willingly.
Even in the center of the city--where the Viking Festival was in its climax and an estimated 40,000 tourists were visiting--it still felt calm, quiet, almost like I wanted to ask, This is York, right?
I arrived to the theater twenty minutes before the show was to begin, and just reading the title To Kill a Mockingbird was enough to give me goosebumps. I already began to feel sorry for my friend Phil, who would meet me to view the show. He was rushing into the city on his bike after giving his young daughter a bath.
When Phil arrived, we made our way through the throbbing crowd within the entrance of the theater and found our seats in the gallery.
Now, I thought a gallery was where art was displayed, and also something that could be used in the phrase "peanut gallery" which meant, loosely translated, "a place high up or behind." The gallery where Phil and I sat was both very high up and very behind all of the other seats. We were in the front row of the gallery, which I thought was wise of me to select, but when I saw the front row, I realized that we would have to lean forward, our elbows planted on the rail in front of us, to be able to see the whole show.
But I would have sat that way regardless.
From the moment the curtain rose to its decent, my eyes were wired to the stage, listening to Scout tell the story of her father, and the story of her own journey towards Experience, by way of a crash course in courage and justice.
I cried.
Yes.
Multiple times.
And when, at the close of the play, Scout remarks to her father, "Boo Radley is actually a pretty nice man," Atticus replies, "Most people are, when you really see them."
That was it.
Man, that was it.
The tears flowed like the River Jordan. (Or like, here in York, the River Ouse.)
The thing about Atticus Finch is that he fought the case that needed fighting. He didn't take it because he thought he could win. He took Tom Robinson's defense because it was the right thing to do.
So much of the ways we live is based on results: what will happen; what our chances of winning are; what the expected yield is; who will see what we do; the praise we might garner; the pats on the back we might earn.
More important than worrying about how we'll be received or what we'll accomplish, Atticus Finch knew that the way WE see others matters more.
Much more.
Walking home through the quiet streets of York, my mind played the line again and again.
And when I walked through the door of our rented home on Lesley Avenue, seeing my wife in our living room, peeking into Tyler's room and praying over him as he slept peacefully in his uptruck pajamas with footies, and climbing into bed myself, the only line written on my heart was, indeed, his.
When you really see them.
Oh, to see that way. To see through eyes that hold out hope and push away judgment. And to fight not because our chances of winning are good, but because the truth behind the battle is worthwhile.
What a way to see. What a way to live.
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label walking. Show all posts
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, December 19, 2010
On Walking
Before England, the longest winter walks I did were from our apartment to the car.
Apartment to car. Drive to work. Walk from car to school. Teach. Walk from school to car. Home. Walk from car to apartment.
And that ultimately included most of my outdoor time, except for the occasional play-time in the snow. But if there was ever a place to go, amidst 20-degree weather, there was no way I was going to actively choose to walk there.
Now, all that has changed. In the absence of a car, our feet must bear the brunt of most travel.
And I love it.
Last night, Jennifer, Tyler, and I all took the 25 minute stroll to the Fishergate area of York, to visit another couple with a young child. It was an evening outing, and the icy air combined with the pitch-black sky (already!) made it feel like something of an adventure.
By the time we arrived to the other family's home, being welcomed in and served tea and crumpets while our children ran around, playing with toys and other objects-that-could-become-toys, the warmth that engulfed us made the walk there that much more special for some reason.
To go from the coldness of the outdoor air into the warmth of a home is, perhaps, one of life's greater joys.
As the evening progressed, Tyler became ever sillier, shouting out, "I like cows!" to which he wanted Jen and I to respond, "I like cows, too!"
Tyler: I like couch!
Luke: I like couch, too!
Jen: I like couch, too!
Tyler: Kate?
Kate: (the mother of the other child): I like it, too, Tyler.
Tyler: Phil?
Phil: (the father of the other child): Yup, me too.
Tyler: May?
May (the one-year old daughter): Aaahh!
Tyler: I like cookies!
(etc.)
By the time we said goodbye, and entered the frigid air again, the walk home felt, well, kind of giddy. At 7pm on a Saturday night, here was my wife, myself, and our son walking along Fulford Road in York, the large busses streaming past, the night sky sparkling, the moon fresh and full.
Arriving home, yes: we cranked our heat.
Tyler built with his blocks while Jen and I talked about how much stinking fun it was to walk.
Just to walk.
Then, this morning, as we all arose to go to St. Oswald's church, we layered ourselves for another walk.
And finally, this afternoon, we bundled up once more for a trek to a local farm to get our Christmas tree. Tyler knew exactly which tree he wanted. He pointed to it, and even though its top was sparse, Tyler was assured it was the best one of the lot.
As we wrapped it securely in the stroller, and Tyler hung out on my shoulders, the walk home felt good. It felt fresh.
Yes, it also felt incredibly cold.
But entering our warm little home, I felt the rush of gratefulness that comes when you travel from one extreme to the other, and I wouldn't trade anything for such a journey.
Especially not a cold walk or two.
(Or three.)
Apartment to car. Drive to work. Walk from car to school. Teach. Walk from school to car. Home. Walk from car to apartment.
And that ultimately included most of my outdoor time, except for the occasional play-time in the snow. But if there was ever a place to go, amidst 20-degree weather, there was no way I was going to actively choose to walk there.
Now, all that has changed. In the absence of a car, our feet must bear the brunt of most travel.
And I love it.
Last night, Jennifer, Tyler, and I all took the 25 minute stroll to the Fishergate area of York, to visit another couple with a young child. It was an evening outing, and the icy air combined with the pitch-black sky (already!) made it feel like something of an adventure.
By the time we arrived to the other family's home, being welcomed in and served tea and crumpets while our children ran around, playing with toys and other objects-that-could-become-toys, the warmth that engulfed us made the walk there that much more special for some reason.
To go from the coldness of the outdoor air into the warmth of a home is, perhaps, one of life's greater joys.
As the evening progressed, Tyler became ever sillier, shouting out, "I like cows!" to which he wanted Jen and I to respond, "I like cows, too!"
Tyler: I like couch!
Luke: I like couch, too!
Jen: I like couch, too!
Tyler: Kate?
Kate: (the mother of the other child): I like it, too, Tyler.
Tyler: Phil?
Phil: (the father of the other child): Yup, me too.
Tyler: May?
May (the one-year old daughter): Aaahh!
Tyler: I like cookies!
(etc.)
By the time we said goodbye, and entered the frigid air again, the walk home felt, well, kind of giddy. At 7pm on a Saturday night, here was my wife, myself, and our son walking along Fulford Road in York, the large busses streaming past, the night sky sparkling, the moon fresh and full.
Arriving home, yes: we cranked our heat.
Tyler built with his blocks while Jen and I talked about how much stinking fun it was to walk.
Just to walk.
Then, this morning, as we all arose to go to St. Oswald's church, we layered ourselves for another walk.
And finally, this afternoon, we bundled up once more for a trek to a local farm to get our Christmas tree. Tyler knew exactly which tree he wanted. He pointed to it, and even though its top was sparse, Tyler was assured it was the best one of the lot.
As we wrapped it securely in the stroller, and Tyler hung out on my shoulders, the walk home felt good. It felt fresh.
Yes, it also felt incredibly cold.
But entering our warm little home, I felt the rush of gratefulness that comes when you travel from one extreme to the other, and I wouldn't trade anything for such a journey.
Especially not a cold walk or two.
(Or three.)
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