Just For Fun

Love popped his head round the door.

"Hi!" He said, and,

"May I?" Pointing to the bed.

"YOU!" I laughed, can take a hike - 

I'm not at home to you today."

Love, unabashed, closed the door behind him.

"We need to talk." (Ever the drama queen.)

I touched his cheek, tenderly, as a mother does,

And whispered.

I shall not  tell you what I said, but I WILL reveal:

Love laughed out loud,

And, before leaving via the fire escape, 

Bowed.

Family Reunion

Carol (Wood) Hensley is my oldest friend. We met in 1965 (mid-teens) in the Fourth Form at Ribston Hall High School For Girls, that bastion of middle-class privilege that let we working-class girls in to teach us our place. I have touched on this before, but even now I amazed that I STILL categorise myself as, 'a working-class child,' why the hell do I continue with it? Never again. So, getting beyond the basis for my socialism: we were friends right back when I swooned over Bob Dylan and she the Pretty Faces. She scratched 'Pretty Faces' on her desk and inked it in, I remember regarding such behaviour as curious, without wanting to do it myself.

 

Today was her mother's memorial service. Carol casually invited me, as I was one of the few people around who remembered the Wood family back in the sixties, and I was pleased to go.

 

The chapel and crematorium are in my old stomping ground, Coney Hill, Gloucester. My brother Adrian and both my parents are buried there, so I combined the memorial with a visit to their grave to tidy it up and put some fresh flowers on it. I also tidied up Baby Annabelle's grave next door, as my mother always used to - it is tiny, and overgrown: the little Cherub and the Father Christmas much in need of a wash. There must come a time when parents of a baby no longer feel the need to come where she isn't, but my mother was sentimental, and so, I guess, am I.

 

I was an observer. There for Carol, certainly, as in weeks to come when we talk about it, I'll know how Penny has aged, and how good the children were, and what a good job the humanist celebrant made of the service..

 

An observer soon knows the groups. The distant relatives not seen since Leslie Wood's service back in 2003, relieved that no-one mentions the promises to meet up that were never kept.

 

Kathleen's friends, ripe with reminiscences, some of them, judging by the shushing and giggles, not entirely respectable.

 

The immediate family, pulling together. Their politeness to me: "Well, Dominic, the last time I saw you, you were a gangly teenager with very blonde hair!" It's been a while.

 

The most interesting character, to me, was Steph, a women in her fifties, I'd say, a first cousin, who had never been allowed to mix with Carol and her sisters. Aunty Betty had married above herself, and all contact with her family was forbidden.

 

Steph's parents are dead, and she is delighting in her discovery of the only family she has now, she being an only child of a father who was an only child.

 

How strange it must be to have been forbidden a family! What kind of snobbishness, what degree of awful compliance, could possibly lead to such a nonsensical state of affairs? People are peculiar, families particularly so.

 

I was in conversation with a Canadian on Saturday who marvelled at how we Brits cling like Velcro to the ridiculous class system. I seconded her amazement. She would have been very entertained by this family and it's story of wealth, estrangement and inestimable loss.

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The True Democrats

In August 2015 I watched a rank outsider, a pacifist, socialist, a vegetarian, jam-maker romp home against a skilled and polished set of opponents to become leader of what is now, thanks to him, the largest Social Democratic Party in Europe.

 

I am referring to Jeremy Corbyn, and as those who read my blog will know, I joined the party during his acceptance speech, having voted as a Fabian.

 

Jezza, as I hardly ever call him, has had a rough ride since August 2015. Establishment figures of every hue have mounted a pretty relentless campaign of vilification against him: HIM, personally, not his policies: I remember a few of the squalls of outrage: he doesn't bow, he doesn't wear a tie. He rides on trains, he rides a bicycle, he is weak, he is a bully, he has no charisma, he is a cult figure ... And on and on and on.

 

What I first noticed about him was, that he always answer the questions put to him. I was, frankly, amazed! Politicians have 'Media Gurus' that train them in avoiding doing so, by any means possible. If appreciating that he treats me with that kind of respect makes me a dupe of a Cult Figure, so be it.

 

Moving on. Having joined the Labour Party I am now faced with a choice. Will paying the fees and turning up for the vote suffice, or should I get involved. I got involved. I started going to meetings. There are six of us who meet regularly, eight sometimes, though hundreds have joined the Party in our region recently, few others come to meetings.

 

I am now the Chair of our Branch, because I caved when it looked like no-one would stand, and here I am leading meetings giving away jobs, smiling a lot.

 

I like talking about myself, I expect most bloggers do, but this isn't about me. I breezed in, and as I once made abundantly clear if the bastards finally get their own back, and Jeremy Corbyn is ousted, I'm off! I do a great flounce. I know how to cancel a standing order!

 

Cherry looks at me and says, quietly ( she is a quiet person) " You can't. There's too much inequality"

 

I looked at Cherry, and Chris and Roger, the old-timers, so recently enthused by the arrival of a true left- winger as Party Leader. They know the score, they sit it out year after year, doing the donkey work, knocking on doors, distributing leaflets: a thankless task in a Tory town.

 

These are the true democrats. They do what they do because they want people to know things can be different. They give people a choice.

 

And Corbyn? Well, if the attack-dogs hound him out of office, he'll carry on doing what he's always done: Steadfastly standing up for the vulnerable, defending public services, calling out the profiteers and the war-mongers. And me? How could I possibly let Cherry down.

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Today Is A Good Day To Write A Poem

Poem: Still Raining

 

 

Still Raining

 

My window looks in on me

Still raining.

OK, I like the rain, apart from it being cold and wet:

Those attributes I am not so fond of.

 

I like it's absence of colour and it's

Complete indifference.

 

The speckles it's makes on the glass and a memory of rain- drop races with Adrian.

 

Then.

 

Now:

 

None of my current crop of children would have the patience to watch a raindrop obey the laws of physics and meander down the pane.

 

I can conjure up excitement and laughter and

Small fingers tracing their favourites. Sometimes I called THAT cheating.

 

When I lost.

 

It's good isn't it? To have a cupboard full of moments. Mine is so crammed they spill out.

 

As for this one: I hold it before it goes. It's January 1st 2017, and right here, right now, I am happy.

 

Even

Though

It's

Still

Raining

 

Happy New Year

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No, I Don't Know What MOOC Stands For ...

I have just uploaded my last assignment for the MOOC 'Naural History Illustration 101',

presented by the University of Newcastle (Auatralia) and hosted by EdX. It was a rendering of an elephant which in poor light and a squint is half-convincing. Despite it's shortcomings, I am very proud of it, and pleased to say that it helped me to my 75% overall mark. (Boosted, I confess, by studiying hard for 100% in the theory elements ... ) 

I will post it. Because it's a serious work, I have not given the subject a name, but his mother's called Mango. 

Natural history has always been a hobby of mine, though I am far more comfortable wielding a camera than a pencil, to be honest. Never mind, it was fun to do, great to learn a new skill, and free. 

Frankly, drawing other bits of the cosmos has been a very welcome distraction. It's hard not to imagine that the world is falling apart with the what-all that's happening in politics at the moment. Getting stuck into a tin of pencils is a wonderful antedote. 

What next? I quite fancy another practical course. Off to EdX to find something new to try. 

Personal Log Stardate 3.722 (billion)

"If you want to make apple pie from scratch, first you have to create the universe."

This is a popular quote from the cosmologist Carl Sagan. I like it, it takes me from the everyday to the ultimate: a profound leap for one that takes just a moment to make. 

Thing are looking bleak at present, so much so that I am tempted to batten down the hatches, stick my head in the sand and hibernate for a decade.

What perturbs me is that it is fashionable to embrace lies to gain power, to encourage mistrust to hold on to it, to turn  a blind eye to the effects of greed and selfishness on those who cannot shield themselves from it: the poor, the unprotected, the marginalised. 

How can this be right?

It isn't.  All I can hope for now, is that one day the appeals to the worst in us will run it's course, and the liars, cheats, war-makers and fear-mongers will be vanquished. I am usually optimistic, but am struggling to remain so. I want the world to be a better place, but what I am seeing right now is pretty much an end-game. 

Such a pity. Because, to end with another Sagan quote:

"Every one of us is, in the cosmic perspective, precious."

Dreaming

I read once that dreams help you to process experiences, and that you cannot dream about someone you don't know or haven't met. I can't say how true this is, but as I can't recall strangers in dreams it might be so.

 

I am scraping the barrel here. I have determined to write a blog post today, but my mind has gone blank, and a quick delve into my subconscious, has dragged up this really weird dream I had last night. Something must be going on, but what it is, I have no idea. I was back in a school that I worked in forty years ago, and I was incensed because I was the headteacher, but had just been ousted in a coup led by my good friend and all -round lovely person, Angela.

 

A little background here. I was never the headteacher of Newtons School, nor did I aspire to be. Angela is the sweetest person I know, and Pauline, a complete nonentity that I didn't know I'd remembered.

 

I was mad! I reasoned, cajoled, threatened, but Angela was adamant, a decision had been made at a meeting of The Church Singing Group that I had to go, and that was that, Pauline was taking over, and would I like to see the 'Situations Vacant' list?

 

Being a dream, the vacancies were on one of those rolling calendar ring-binder type of things that seemed to display only houses for sale. No-one thought this odd.

The situation was ludicrous, the plot incredible, but the FEELINGS! My, they were real! Anger, frustration, disappointment, futility, betrayal ...

It was a relief to wake up.

Maybe there IS something I need to come to terms with here. Stuff I thought I'd dealt with ...

Nope, not going there.

Thank you for reading everybody! See you in my dreams!

 

 

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Berrying

Abigail (5), Sam (2), and me (65) were out and about on Sunday evening.

"They've been fed and watered, they just need exercise!" my daughter said, handing me Sam's reins.

Fair enough, so did I.

We exhausted the possibilities of the limited play equipment at the local park, escaped it's confines, and headed for the bank that separated the tamed land from the wilds. 

"Conkers!" cried Sam, as my two joined the children gathering horse chestnuts by the handful. Then we had to throw them, catch them ( if we could), play hide and seek with them, roll them down the slide to hear the clatter, and, finally, pocket them and set off on other adventures. 

"Look grandma! A green tunnel!" Abigail was picking dandelion clocks and had discovered the shaded portal to the rest of the world - a footpath that led out into the fields.

So we ventured into the unknown, following the path through the hedgerow, watching our shadows lengthen as the sun sank behind us. 

When was the last time you went berrying? "Strawberry!" Sam cried, putting an unripe blackberry into his mouth and immediately regretting it. 

We ate our fill, staining hands and mouths, incidentally practising all kinds of fieldcraft, like identifying stinging nettles and avoiding them, no matter how tempting the nearby berries were. 

I continued Abigail's instruction on the identification of native plants. She was mildly interested .
Our most exciting find was an orange spider, which was unfortunate enough to catch our attention. I'd never seen one quite like it. 

I expect the children have already forgotten our excursion, but I won't. They grow so quickly, and soon dandelion clocks and the screech of a pheasant will hold no mystery or delight - but I shan't forget. Young children are enchanting companions: it was wonderful to shed sixty years and scoff blackberries and tell the time by dandelion again.

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Vision Quest

It's Tuesday Again!

Which is when I ALWAYS remember MicroblogMondays!

Thank you Mel and fellow bloggers for all your support.

Today, a poem:

 

I dreamed

I lived in the attic

And you, in the cellar

But we never passed on the stairs

This was just the way of it.

 

Then, last night,

You heard my laughter, and you opened the

Door to your subterranean apartment

And sat on the stairs with me.

We didn't talk.

There didn't seem any need.

 

Besides, I couldn't stop laughing.

 

Some dream eh?

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On the Charisms of Jeremy Corbyn.

Collete and I are friends, and will remain so, but we did have a bit of a heated discussion on the EU Referendum and the failure of Jeremy Corbyn to deliver more than 63% of the Labour vote for Remain.

"He lacks charisma," she says. All I can say to that, is: I have been to hear him and it's not true. I guess it's what you believe charisma to be, that we're disagreeing over.

Here's an old, old story.

The people of Israel were ruled by Judges, who seemed, on the whole, to be doing a reasonable job, but the people of Israel got bored with them, so they went to the Lord God and said,

"We want a King. Everybody else has a King and we want one."

"Okay ..." said the Lord God, "But you do KNOW that a King will enrich himself at your expense, pick fights with your neighbours and send you off to die in his battles, don't you?"

"Yes, Yes," said the people, of Israel, "We know this, but never mind, we still want a King."

"So who do you want then?" asked the Lord God, eyeing up a few good people.

"Saul!" They said, "We want Saul!"

What?? asked the Lord God, in amazement.. "You want SAUL ? The donkey herdsman???

"Oh yes!" Said the the people of Israel, "WE WANT SAUL! WE WANT SAUL!!"

And why? Asked the Lord God, who sometimes will give you what you ask for, "Would you want a donkey herdsman to be your King??"

"Because" clamoured the people, "He has the qualities we want in a leader!" He's tall, dark, and handsome!"

The rest is history. You can read the whole disastrous story for yourself in the Bible in the Book of Kings.

I am tempted to let you work out what I want you to for yourself, and to infer from it that the clamour for anyone but Corbyn parallels the biblical narrative, but you might think it a bit of a stretch, and I am unwilling to leave it there.

There is more to charisma than being able to wow a crowd. Hitler aced THAT one. There are the charisms of an upright man who has battled sincerely for unpopular causes his entire career, because they are just. A man who doesn't fake manic enthusiasm for a trumped up cause, or tell lies to win an argument.

Honesty, sincerity and a passion for social justice are charisms too.

If the British people want a donkey-herder for a King, they'll get one. And when the nation devours itself in partisan strife, and the Labour Party commits political suicide, don't say you didn't know it was coming.

I told you so.

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SowingThe Wind

I remain an ardent member of the Twitterati, despite it's weakness, which is to say the opinions of other people, which are often not improved by being limited to 140 characters. It is, in fact, quite remarkable just how much bile, antagonism and profanity that can be  spewed  out  in so few words. 

I am not vile, only once rude ( for which I took a week of Twitter to cool down), and never, ever, profane. I am occasionally passionate, sometimes dismissive and, I like to think, once in a while, a tad humorous. I have been unfollowed by Cheltenham and blocked by Mark Steel: but no matter, one takes the rough with the smooth. 

I rarely listen to mainstream news any longer, though  I will put in a plug here for France24, non-partisan for sure, and a different perspective ... So my Twitterfeed keeps me up to date with all the goings-on. 

The discerning amongst you will spot a huge flaw in this strategy, especially if you factor in that I don't waste my wit on people who don't share my views, and I have no truck with the rude lot. Filtering my intake is good for my blood pressure, that's my excuse, and it's a good one. 

So it's on Twitter that I follow the abomination that is Donald Trump, with his vile views on practically every demographic except the crazy one, and the appalling farce that is the EU Referendum. 

Today, my TweetCommunity is a little peeved at the papers I would rather pull my own teeth than read, blaming Social Media for propagating the hatred that feeds  anger against LBGT, (Other) Faith Groups, Refugees and Immigrants. I would say that Social Media is a scary place if you don't have a strong stomach,  but Anti-Social Media must take responsibility too. Look at at THIS:

Sickening, isn't it? 

So a mad man with a gun and a knife brutally murders a member of the British Parliament, and everyone is rushing about trying to discover who is to blame?

I follow Donald Trump with horrified fascination and want to end by saying this:

IF YOU ALLOW THE POLITICS OF HATE TO SUCCEED , YOU END UP WITH DONALD TRUMP!!! 

And a beautiful, talented young mother dying in a pool of blood outside a library in a  quiet Yorkshire town. 

If you sow the wind, you reap the whirlwind. Just saying. 

The Ship That Flew

"It all started with a toothache ..." Doesn't seem much of an opening, but when I started reading this story to my grandchildren last week, it was with a thrill of nostalgia. 

I was eight years old, and my father gave me a book that had belonged to him. Hilda Lewis' children's classic, 'The Ship That Flew'. The little boat, once owned by Thor carried the four lovely 1940's middle class children across the world and back through time to all sorts of exciting adventures. 

I can't wait. Today, we tried to return the ship ( unsuccessfully)  to the old man who,sold it to Peter. Next week we will visit Matilda back in 1070, soon we shall be off to Egypt,,ancient and modern, then ... Who knows? It's been more than fifty years since I read it, and I can't remember. 

Life-Crafting

"Hidden Brain" is a podcast about everything to do with the brain, which is pretty much everything if you think about it.

 

I listened to this issue on "Job-Crafting" whilst in the bath just now, and was much taken with it. The Harvard Professor with the brief for employees in the workplace, had interviewed a number of hospital cleaning staff, quizzing them on how their version of the job matched that of the management. I think the kind of cleaners the hospital were glad they employed, were those who had made their job into a life-work. They had taken the dry list of 'things to do' and made it sing. Here's how it goes:

https://itun.es/gb/oB-u9.c

My brain was really taken with this, and returned immediately from it's beach vacation to run away with the idea of 'Life-Crafting'. (Website and tee-shirt to follow... .)

 

Life-crafting is all about looking at the to-do list and inviting it to contribute something meaningful to the wealth of human happiness. Just hold that thought, and let YOUR brain make it sing.

 

:)

 

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Easter Poems

1. The King Sleeps

I will mine the agony of my God with a pick and a lamp.

I will hew the stones and teach them to cry ‘Hosanna!’

I will fashion a tomb to bloom in a garden

I will fracture the face of Israel with a blow

That will become an earthquake

To awaken the dead.

I will set my lamp beneath a splintered tree

I will close my ears against the forsaken cries of the Holy One

I will seal my mouth against the acrid taste of blood

I will shut my eyes to hide the corpse that hangs above me.

His eyes, not -closed. His body, not-clothed.

‘IT IS FINISHED!’

It’s over. God -

Adored, outpoured - passes over.

Numbed, beyond fear, I whisper a lullaby into the dark:

‘Be still. Be still.

Night dawns.

Death dies -

The King sleeps.’

2. God Awakening

I will celebrate the victory of my God in silence, and in song.

I will gaze upon the likeness

Of the one-who-was pierced.

I will touch the mystery

Of the dead-one-living.

I will trace his signature over my heart:

North to south

East to west:

King of Kings

Lord of Lords.

I will open my mouth to sing the serenade of the stars,

The song of the angels before the throne of God.

I will shout into the sunrise, a canticle for my King:

‘Rejoice! Rejoice!

The Lord is Risen -

Alleluia!’

I will bury myself in his joy,

And, with laughter,

I will rise again.

 

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An English Country Churchyard

I love a good rummage round a churchyard, don't you?

I came home the long way yesterday, taking a right turn off the Ross Road at Barber's Bridge for a diversion through the villages of Tibberton and Taynton because it's Spring and the native daffodil is in bloom. The hosts of past centuries are depleted to a remnant in the hedgerow and churchyard now but there they are, and their tenacity makes me proud.

 

I guess St Lawrence's Church, Taynton, isn't grand, but it's loved, and worshippers have gathered here since the time when we had no King, when we were a 'Commonwealth'. A concept I rather like, and wouldn't be too sad to see return ... 'Commondearth' being what we have now. (Disgruntled sigh.)

 

 

 

 

 

This striking monument is for three soldiers from the same family killed or maimed in what their family who buried them would have called 'The Great War'

In Cherished Memory of Thomas Wetmore Ponting of the 12th BATT. London Regt. Rangers killed in action in Flanders April 21st. 1915, 29.

 His brothers, Charles (40) and William (37) died within days of each other just two weeks before the Armistice. Can you imagine how this family suffered? 

On a lighter note, the headstone below marks the final resting place of Ann Watkins (69) died 1894, ('Thy Will Be Done) and her husband, the quaintly named 'Comfort' Watkins who followed her to glory in 1900 ('Jesus Wept')

'Comfort' sends my thoughts off down a track. Do the last vestiges of this village's Presbyterian history reside in Mr Watkins' unusual name? The Church itself was Anglicised long ago, but maybe the Dissenting fervour that built it lingered on in family names?

Enough idle speculation! Today is St David's Day! Greetings to my Welsh family and friends. Here for you is one last glimpse of the daffodils!

 

If you are a fan of British history, St Laurence's Church is Quite Interesting!

https://sites.google.com/site/unitedbeneficehighnam/taynton-church/history-of-taynton

 

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News Round-Up

There's a bit of a controversy over here about right-wing bias in the BBC. It does look a bit skewed to be honest. But these things usually even themselves out. Besides, I am no longer in a position to complain about BBC news, because I no longer watch it. It's a price Auntie appears willing to pay.

So I get my news from my Twitter feed, which is unashamedly biased, but in a GOOD way. I only get the news I want to hear.

I am very disappointed that Peter Phillips is being paid to ask other people to pay to go to his granny's birthday bash in the Mall. Of course I am glad the Queen has made it to ninety as the alternative would be inconceivable, but this 'pay as you party' wheeze says everything about the Upper Class attitude to the rest of us that is going to lead to us into becoming a Republic one day.

A PR firm has the job of persuading me to clean the streets for the big event: it's wasting somebody's money.

I was at a newsy event myself last week, I hauled my lazy arse off to London to attend a Fabian's conference that featured Jeremy Corbyn. Nothing flashy about Jez. He has the quiet, unassuming authoritative air of a man at home in his skin. I like it. He has a mountain to climb though, because people are stupid. Sorry, I have to say it. Look at the facts: Corbyn says something unconventional like let's not waste billions of money we're CONSTANTLY being told we don't have, on an obscene and obsolete weapons system, we can't even use. He is excoriated in the Tory press. Stupid people just can't work out that democracy only works if all sides are heard. I have to listen to enough of that over-privileged, over-stuffed imbecile David Cameron. Come on! Let's have some balance.

That's better!

Sometimes you just have to let rip.

Sorry if I've offended anyone:it was probably intentional.

:)

 

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Choosing a Wig

First of all, the tests for mylenoma came back negative. I can't remember ever feeling quite so relieved. So what IS causing my back pain is still an unknown, possibly to be resolved by an MRI scan next Friday week.

 

It's interesting to look back on how I dealt with this little bit of a crisis, bearing in mind that I have an unbudgeable faith, and three years of really good Buddhist teaching under my belt.

 

"Oh my God! I'm going to die!" This was my, not totally together, response to my husband's casual request to 'phone the doctor about my test results. The routine is, you get tested, and you call back in a week for the results. That, I discovered, is for when the results require no further action.

 

"There's a very slight elevation of protein in your blood ... Further tests ... Mylenoma ... Yes it IS treatable ... Prognosis - good ..." By the time I was having this conversation with my doctor, I was supremely calm. I posed all the right questions, I said thank you. I put the 'phone down and remained calm and quite reassured. "Oh well." I told myself, cancer looks unlikely, doctor just being cautious." I started to make light of it.

 

"Now that I'm dying," I would say, lifting the back of my hand to my forehead in the manner of a nymph on a Greek urn, " I think another cup of tea wouldn't go amiss." For days. Ray was perfect. He'd roll his eyes and make the tea.

 

Next off, comes the appointment from the hospital for four days hence. On Christmas Eve. Straight back to,"Oh my God, I'm dying! NOBODY has an appointment on Christmas Eve!" The letter advises bring a close friend or relative with you. I went with my brother when he got his diagnosis. I know what THIS means. The 'now that I'm dying' act ceased immediately.

 

I have to know. So, after vowing not to, I go onto the Internet and check my disease out. Don't do it, no, really, don't. I read the survival stats. (So generalised to be meaningless, as they will always be.) I watched the video on 'Caring for a patient with ... ' Not a good idea. I then set about checking out wigs. And reminding myself that I haven't yet picked the readings and music for my Requiem Mass.

 

My friend Catherine, a breast cancer survivor, says this, the time between suspicion and diagnosis, is the worst time of all. So, having abandoned the Internet, made the best of it. I asked friends to pray with me, and for me. This was great, I was so surrounded by love and concern: it warmed and comforted me, it helped me to bear it. I don't ask my Creator for special favours, though, this is my prayer:

 

"What comes to me, comes, it is neither reward nor punishment, it just is. This is what faith is for. Walk with me. "

 

I chose not to tell my daughters until there was definite news. And if there was bad news, not to tell them until after Christmas. My youngest spotted me leaving the hospital: a coincidence so unlikely, it's staggering, but there you are, random things randomly happen. So I didn't entirely get away with this piece of subterfuge!

 

I held, "Walk with me." close, and this became the open invitation to be awake and aware of both the wonder and the cruelty that is everyone's life. I walked my garden, dwelling on every seed head, every mossy stone, every sign of emergent life ... I visited friends at the project for recovering addicts and listened with heightened intensity, I played with my grandchildren as if I was as young as they are. Sometimes, however, I remembered, and panic arose. I let it be, I let it pass.

 

The hospital visit couldn't have gone better. Seen before my appointment, bloods done, specialist gave the good news, booked an MRI to find out what's causing the pain... And I took up the threads of my life again.

 

I am inclined to be a little ashamed about making a big deal about something I didn't actually have wrong with me. It was a bit like a test for when I REALLY have to make friends with illness and death. If I had to rate myself, I'd give me a B- .

 

I might skip the 'Greek urn' phase next time, but I'm sticking with the wig I chose.

 

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"Let Nothing Disturb You"

Contemplative prayer is about the best tonic I know for a weary soul. Or any kind of spiritual practice that takes you away from yourself for a bit, and puts you in touch with a deeper reality, will do it. I learned long ago that there are many, many ways to find meaning. " Anything that works" is my motto for transcendence.

 

I have offended you. I'm sorry, but if you're willing to sit with it for a while, the stuff you disagree with, it's far more likely to teach you something than the stuff you don't. If you open yourself to it.

 

On contemplative prayer. It's my turn to lead at the next meeting of the group I belong to that meets monthly at Llansor Mill away over the border in South Wales. It's a bit scary, because at least two of the group, on any given day, are theologians, which I definitely am not. So, we're doing St Teresa of Avila, who lived a long time ago and set about reforming a church that had become worldly and corrupt.

 

I discovered I couldn't get my head round her, or her teaching, and was beginning to get a bit desperate, when I had an epiphany! It was my heart that needed to get round her, so I stopped trying to be clever, and wrote poems instead.

 Here's my reflection for Day Seven of the collection of her sayings, "Let Nothing Disturb You":

 Mantra: "Do not be bashful with God"

 Summary: Would you refuse a gift if the queen offered it to you?

Reflection on the text: I had a conversation with God many years ago. I was trying to sort out some difficulty believing that God need not concern himself with it. I don't remember much of the detail, but that I was holding on to some misdemeanour, believing that it was unforgivable.

"Was not my Son's death price enough to pay?"

I realised then that it was not humility that led me to refuse God's gift of forgiveness, but the very worse kind of pride.

Ask with confidence. Don't be shy.

Poem:

 Abigail,

Is a powerful, enlightened soul,

She streams into my life with light

And joy of being. She makes me

Be better than I am,

And she is four years old.

She is as she is, because she never

Needed to fear me

Or please me

She needed, only, to know this:

I love her.

 

And so it is with God,

And me.

I sweep into his presence as if he belonged to me.

 He taught me with his love.

Not to be shy.

 

Night Prayer: May I approach you every day Lord, with confidence and joy.

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