Things Look Better in the Morning

We visited Cambridge yesterday, for several reasons; Roy spent many years there (at King's and then at Jesus College) and wanted to catch up with friends, Emily had some other friends to meet with, in a cathedral choir that was passing through, while I simply wanted to adore Cambridge. Which I did, thoroughly, although it was greyer and wetter than the last time I paid homage there.

Selected highlights: 

- the view from the cafe across the road from King's College.

- the unexpectedly good collection of art at the Fitzwilliam Museum, including a Renoir I'd never seen, a couple of Canalettos, and an obscure corner of pre-Raphaelites.

- a similarly unexpectedly good Thai restaurant.

- the purchase of two new pairs of shoes; a pair of leather/gore-tex boots to replace my old ones (which were rapidly filling with holes) and a pair of long wool-lined brown boots, which I had budgeted for and which are extremely beautiful.

- cream tea at Fitzbillies.

- the frozen river Cam.

- the company.

Even though it was a splendid day, I didn't sleep well; I had one of those nights filled with irrational anxieties and woke up pretty neatly on every hour after 3am. In the spirit of dot points, here are the silly what-ifs that plagued me:

- What if I/my agency haven't budgeted properly and I run out of money?

- What if my friends forget about me because I'm not around? 

- What if I annoy my friends and family by writing too much, and being needy? (I told you these were irrational)

- What if it turns out I'm crappy at this job?

- What if I haven't filled in the proper paperwork and my life turns into a sort of Dante's inferno at the airport? 

- What if all this is a fit of hubris and not God's will at all? (Yes, I see the theological idiocies in that now)

Those are selected highlights: there were even sillier things. Now, since none of those anxieties exist in the broad light of a London morning, I'm going to cast it all off and have poached eggs on toast, for reasons that this hymn, sung by Leigh Nash and stuck stubbornly in my head for days, makes clear:

I sought the Lord, and afterward I knew
He moved my soul to seek Him, seeking me.
It was not I that found, O Savior true;
No, I was found of Thee.

Thou didst reach forth Thy hand and mine enfold;
I walked and sank not on the storm vexed sea.
’Twas not so much that I on Thee took hold,
As Thou, dear Lord, on me.

I find, I walk, I love, but oh, the whole
Of love is but my answer, Lord, to Thee!
For Thou were long beforehand with my soul,
Always Thou lovest me.