The Burning of Notre Dame

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My heart bleeds in the flames of Notre Dame. 

We look to the spire, the hand reaching for the heavens, as a symbol of ancient protection. These architecturally beautiful monuments of historical whispers are reminders that there is something divine in this world. They’re a symbol of the bridge between man and the spiritual protector. The burning, crumbling stone evokes emotions akin to a grieving child at the funeral of a fallen parent.  

The bells are ringing in your ears. The bells that sounded so often through the city streets. A vibration that would paint the city in light, if only for a fleeting moment each day. Bells that would say, ‘Remember the true nature of your existence. I’m your protector, your saviour.’

Perhaps the tears are a realisation that the divine protection, that the connection to the spiritual realm, has been been destroyed. Perhaps the men fighting the blaze, frantically trying to save the ruin, are a symbol of our half hearted repentance. Like a man overcompensating when his wife has decided to leave him. He begs and pleads silently as he cleans the house and takes her out for a coffee mid week. But, she’s already destroyed. He can no longer salvage this wreckage. 

I grieve for the loss of such a beautiful cathedral.

Yet, the church isn’t a hand reaching for the heavens as a symbol of ancient protection. It’s a hand reaching down. Despite the fire, the chaos, the despair, this divine connection will be mirrored in the hearts of believers who recognise true, ancient love.

In the end, everything will burn. So what do we do until that day? 

Rain

It was a cold miserable morning. The weather’s ice cold winds melted into my bones, yet I hadn’t even left the house. The rain fell all night without any hint of a cozy undertone.

The city was crowded with dreamless faces and deathly stares. The shelters were shoulder to shoulder with slow moving pedestrians that were showered with heavy drops that ran down the sides of buildings.

A few drops of rains and the trains are in chaos.

I hate it. I’m not a winter person, so this is ridiculious. I had to cross the city in the blistering cold to drop off an broken camera lens. Well, not just any lens, a Canon 70-200mm. It was my favourite lens. My baby. My livelihood.

At Wynyard I push past police, army vets, and a long line of corporate stiffs who are waiting to get into some event that I couldn’t care less about. Here is a question Sydney, why is so much of this overpriced city dependent on sunny skies? I didn’t have an umbrella and I felt every drop of the miserable, dirty rain.

Soaking wet, unhappy and ready to face the music. I bring out my lens.

“I’ll test it on my camera.”

The man checks the lens. I didn’t want to force it on my camera, but he has no trouble.

“It’s a bit tight…”

I thought it was too tight. But tell me, how is it?

“It seems OK. You’re a lucky man.”

I put my renewed hope back into my bag and head back to the office. Back through the crowds of zig-zagging people. Back across the roads where the red man overstays his welcome.

An alarm is going off in a building. I wonder why they were evacuated? There was a camera crew across the road. It’s funny how they still use massive rigs.

It’s now 2:00.

I work until 5:00.

A link is sent to my messenger.

MAN STABBED IN THE BACK OF THE NECK OUTSIDE WYNYARD STATION

Right outside my office. Right when I went for a walk.

Suddenly my attitude changed. The cold is just cold. The rain is just rain.

You never know when it’s your time.

Life is precious.

And I love the rain.

Written by Randall Evans.

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