yomi on the hill (st. john at hampstead's) - 1/25/26

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On Christmas Day, I decided to go on a crawl, stopping first at Emmanuel Church to play a few chords on the empty chapel’s baby-grand piano. It smelled like frankincense inside and soon I found out why, as I stood in the corner near the incense burners for awhile, meditating, and lighting candles at the altar. In the past, I’d felt uncomfortable in churches and wouldn't linger.

 

But overtime, I'd become more resilient and then something shifted entirely over the holidays. They felt different, somehow less intense, lighter, like I could see these churches as neutral spaces, where, on off days, I might find quiet. They were just buildings, after all, that belonged to the community, even if they were highly decorated with symbols and suggestions of a more black and white worldview.

 

I walked up Frognal Road and made my way to the graveyard next to St. John at Hampstead's. I was wearing the black North Face I’d bought for $250 back in 2015 at the REI on Houston Street. I bought that jacket at the start of my first real winter in New York, after driving across the country from LA. I couldn't really afford it then, but I needed it more than the keyboards and guitars I'd sold to help pay for my move. I still hang onto that coat for especially cold days, but whenever I wear it, I feel like I go backward in time, to a younger version of myself who's world feels so much smaller.

 

Underneath the waterproof shell, I walked the path that led along the eastern side of the cemetery, curving around the stacked stone perimeter that looked out onto Canary Wharf in the distance, trying to make out the names that were etched onto the various headstones. Most of them seemed to be from the 19th century and had been weathered by the rain, washed, a bit like memories not maintained, and fading away slowly with time.

 

One at the back stood out with an elaborate plaque and a raised tomb  commemorating a man named John Constable. I thought his name sounded like a character from The Crucible. It was strange to me that his corner was so pronounced and yet so far away from the church itself. I didn’t realize he was the esteemed painter from Suffolk who had achieved fame depicting the areas’ many ruins and moody landscapes.

 

I crossed the street to the other side of the cemetery where the graves were organized in rows alongside Holly Walk, and seemed slightly newer. I’d been on my feet all morning and my energy levels were starting to drop, leaving me feeling vulnerable. Then, I started to feel a chill setting in and building, with a  sensation at the front of my chest. A pointed tightening. The stones of the graves themselves began irritate me and felt charged. “Who came up with this shape anyway?”, I wondered. It didn't seem very restful to me.

 

I started visualizing a grayish-purple vapor and felt confused, like I was standing inside a cloud of regret. I thought about my own death, one day, in a distant future and concluded that I didn’t want to be memorialized like that, as an odd heap of bones to imagine, piled underneath a dull block of concrete for people to leave the occasional corner-store bouquet. It felt so stuck in place. I’d rather be put out to sea or submerged in the soil under an old hawthorne tree. At least that way I'd get to keep moving.

Not long after, I made for the gate, shutting it behind me, and heading back down the hill in the direction of Finchley Road. The yellowing sun was hanging low in the sky and shined down onto my face as I walked on curving, tree-lined streets, filling me with a warmth again that helped shake off the uncomfortable feeling I'd had in the cemetery.