What is it we want in life? As I age, the clearer the answer becomes. To be loved … and to give love in return. I could sit in a house of gold, write with a diamond pen, on the finest sheets of paper. But what would this matter… if I was not beloved?
I don’t just mean romantic love. That may happen, that may not. I mean to give and receive love from an other. From a friend, a colleague, a neighbour, someone in my family, a pet. The most life saving love I have received has not always been from humans, but from animals. Devoted and caring, following me on paths, even into hated water, because they would not leave me…such is their love.
I have walked through some really difficult times. But it was the love of others… and my choosing to receive their love and to love them, that helped walk me through. Sometimes it was not even someone I knew. It was a someone in a book, a film, a song: a life lived but hard time shared helped me to feel that I am not alone. Friends present, or not, got me through storms, warmed me in the winter, brightened the sunniest days. It was the connection and that mattered.
There is risk. The beloved may remove themselves. They may move away, fade away, turn away, pass away. The pain of love lost can be unbearable…at the time. But is it not ‘better to have loved and lost/ Than never to have loved at all‘ (Alfred Tennyson – In Memoriam). For though we may lose the object we loved, we gained the assurance that we were loved. Cared about. Mattered. Noticed. That we were beloved on the earth.
Went up Twmbarlwm Mountain again. Somehow it gives me perspective. Standing there, on ancient ground, looking over the Severn estuary. They say the Romans stood there too, looking out for boats, travelling from Italy to Caerleon.
Sometimes that’s encouraging, to know there have been people here before. Looking out, like me. Sometimes it’s sobering. Who will know about me, standing here, gazing? My footprint will soon be gone.
On the very top of the mountain, is a raised mound. You can get a 365 degree view of hills, towns, the Brecon Beacons, The Severn. On a clear day you can see over to Bristol and follow the coastline until it disappears in Somerset. I love to sit and stare.
This time, as I climbed down the stone steps, I came across a rock, nestling in the foot of the mound, tucked away from the wind. It caught my eye as it was covered in a bright green moss, tinged with pink. It interested me for a few moments, then I moved on.
But something about it intrigued me. I returned. My eyesight’s not the best and even though I squinted, I couldn’t make it out. It looked like there was something more there, but it was too small for me to see.
I remembered my macro lens. I’d bought this phone for the very reason that it had one. I love taking pictures right in close: veins on leaves, stamens on flowers. Things I couldn’t see unless I looked a bit closer.
And then I saw it, hidden from my plain sight, a garden of tiny but perfect pink flowers. A thriving macro garden, blooming and flourishing.
It made me think how sometimes my life can seem insignificant, hidden. The daily chores, the struggles, the silent prayers. Who notices when we pair the socks, wash the dishes, clear the emails, lock the doors, twinge with pain, wipe the tears?
It made me think about my God, El Roi, (the God who sees) who seems intent on seeing the unseen. The poor, the broken hearted, the bruised, the sick. The one whose eye is on the sparrow (1) counts the hairs on my head (2), bottles my tears (3).
Today I read a favourite scripture:
I waited patiently for the Lord; and He inclined unto me and heard my cry.
Psalm 40 v 1
Inclined unto me. Not just stood there, looking into the middle distance as I moaned and blubbed, half listening, hurrying me on to finish. But someone much greater and wiser than me, loving me so, so much. He’s willing to kneel down, right beside me and listen to my cries. Just like I do with my children, my grandchildren.
Roland Walls said that “the insignificant is significant to God”(4). Everything in His kingdom is the opposite of here and now. It’s the sparrow, the single hair, the widow’s loose change in a charity bucket (5). It’s not the stuff that goes viral or gets a thousand likes. But it gets Heaven’s attention and the God who Sees, leans in close, fixes us with His loving gaze and doesn’t miss a heartbeat.
(1) Matthew 10 v 29-31
(2) Luke 12 v 17
(3) Psalm 56 v 8
(4) Rowland Walls, (2015), Celtic Daily Prayer Book 2, p1415.
Loving seeing the squirrels this January in my local park as they scamper to find their stash of well hidden nuts. Something about them makes me want to pick them up and squeeze. But then I’m like that with most furry creatures.
Love a hazel nut too. So rich in colour, smooth in shell, delicious in taste, rich in nutrition. The 14th Century mystic Julian of Norwich had a vision of a hazel nut (1). She saw it clearly in the palm of her hand and knew that God made it, loves it, protects it.
Cracking open nuts at Christmas is a fond memory. We had a black bowl engraved with pretty coloured flowers around the outside. It would hold a variety of hazels, walnuts, brazils and a shining sturdy silver nutcracker would rest on the top. I loved trying to crack open the nuts, but every so often I would smash through hard shell to the soft, tender fruit inside. Too much pressure shattering the shell. My Dad was skilled at this and would gently crack the outer shell to reveal the tender fruit inside and hand it to me. It’s a delicate art, borne out of much love for the nut inside.
I hear talk about being broken. Some talk about God breaking us. It’s natural to shy away from such thoughts. Leave that to the aesthetics. Too much pain in life already. Hard times, poor health, loss of loved ones. But on reflection the process is less about breaking down into bits and more about a divine intervention to reveal my true self.
Thomas Merton talked about our true and our false self (2). The false self is the one we wind around ourselves, through the trappings of life: appearance, performance, possessions. Impressive to others, unseen by God. He only sees my true self, the one He created me to be before time began. The one that sings and resonates with joy at simply being.
On reflection the breaking is less about breaking me down into bits, and more about the gentle and necessary work of a skilled Father carefully cracking the outer shell of my false self and revealing my true self. It’s a delicate art, borne out of much love for the nut inside.
Julian of Norwich, Revelations of Divine Love (1982) Middlesex: Penguin, Chapter 5, p68.
Merton, Thomas,(1961), New Seeds of Contemplation, New York: New Directions, Chapter 5, p34.
When I was in junior school … like three thousand years ago … things were different. We wore our own clothes, ‘break time’ was called ‘play time’, and we actually did play games together that did not need batteries or grown ups!! Inside we sat at desks, where we stashed sneaky sweets, teachers wrote on a board that was black, with chalk that got everywhere. Some of those things were good, some not so.
I especially remember that we were taught a certain pre digital, pre typewriter skill: drawing margins. You were given a page full of drawings equidistant horizontal lines to write on, but, heaven forbid, that you should be allowed to roam free. Gone were the infant class days of a blank page at the top for pictures, and a few lines below for your scrawl. This was an era of boundaries, a time to curb crayon skies of blue, yellow corner page suns shining on the startled stick person below. This was the brave new era of words, sentences, perhaps even meaning.
How many times did I sit, intense with concentration, with a twelve inch wooden ruler (that’s one foot if you only speak metric), clamped to the left side of my page? With my tongue sticking out, I would run the tip of my HB drawing pencil from the very top of the page to the very bottom. It was serious business. It had to be at right angles to the horizontal lines across the page; not a line that waved or juddered. Any error could get you a telling off, even a missed playtime – sitting in the outer circle of hell at your desk, hearing the cries of joy from those playing tag or bulldogs on the nearby playground.
I hated drawing margins. It was such a pointless task, sent to punish those who had more important things to do with their incredible young life. It was torture and unfair, and the die was already loaded against me drawing straight by the non transparent, wooden ruler!
But the nonsense of then, can actually make some sense now …especially when the boredom of having to do it is far, far away in the dream of childhood. I now appreciate a margin on a page, put numbers or bullet points in them, notes of what I need to include or delete. How many times have they saved my mind from calcification when that person, with two thousand more words than me a day, is given the floor in an MSTeams call. The margin has allowed me to cling to consciousness with my scrawly doodles of flowers and cats and trees.
Moreso, I have come to appreciate the simple beauty of this sacred space, where stillness and silence collect, through the deliberate creation of a margin of space. Now I know that margins, are good for me. Sometimes my day wants to run headlong, at full speed from waking to falling asleep exhausted. More often it has a steady, but relentless pace, without a pause. Meeting to meeting, task to task. Do, do, do. Never just be, be,be.
I find that if I stop, take my time, look at my planned day and add in a margin or two, between the tasks and events, I can actually pace my day and walk through it. What was a mind numbing activity, drawing margins with a wooden ruler, has now become a mindful one. One that helps me to find the rests between the beats of the day. Times to pause, rest, take a breath. Times to get up and walk, to make a cuppa, to hug the dog. Times to message a friend, walk the avenue, look at the big wide sky. Doing somethings that are not that deeply dramatic, but oh so simply significant.
Sometimes my life can be like this. Work issues roll into family issues roll into health issues. Last year was like this for me and it felt like one big rolled up ball that gathered pace, until it left me exhausted and I stopped.
But it was in the not being able to do, that I found a way to be. Oh, I do like to do. As Adam Gopnik says in his insightful book The Real Work: On the Mystery of Mastery (3), learning and mastering a new skill is not ‘rocket science’. It’s down to repetition. Doing something over and over and over again, until you, maybe, get good at it. You may not become a grand master, but you may go some way towards mastery. So, I keep on writing, keep on playing piano, keep on swimming. I keep on reflecting on why, when someone pushes my buttons, I react. It’s a bit squirmy sometimes, but I guess I’m a work in progress. Like Robert the Bruce’s spider I ‘try and try and try again’. Maybe I’m getting better.
(4)
But doing, in a world fixated with doing, is exhausting. I have to do and I also like to do – to get up, go to for a walk, a swim, to work. To meet with friends and family. To do the daily routines and so live this precious life I have been given. But I’m realising more and more that I can get ‘the cart is before the horse’. Doing is not peaceful unless it comes from a place of peace.
Horse before cart (5)
Contemplative prayer has helped me with this. It’s a time aside to still myself in the presence of One who is higher and bigger and lovelier and more peaceful. He is Peace. He is my peace. I read about Him, I talk with Him about it, I listen to music and worship Him. But real peace comes as I ‘quiet and still my soul’ (6) and just be with Him. Just to sit and be aware that He is with me, I am with Him, and I am loved. It’s a choice just to be with Him. It’s not new, but a well trodden path that mystics, and others, through the centuries have followed (7). The horse goes back in front of the cart.
You do not have to look for anything, just look. You do not have to listen for specific sounds, just listen. You do not have to accomplish anything, just be. And in the looking, and the listening and the being, find Me.
(8) Lewin, A (2002) from Seasons with the Spirit (Churches together in Britain and Ireland: 2002) in Celtic Daily Prayer Book Two Farther Up and Farther In (2015) London: William Collins (Eata readings 21 May p1485)
It’s getting all festive! Decs up, lights twinkling, advent calendar chocolates counting down to the BIG day. Out have come the old Christmas albums – I would say CDs but even that is pushing it with streaming. We have a mix of choirs from Cambridge, 70s rock and crooning rat packs – all sprinkling Christmas dust in our ears and reminding me of the times we have played them, over and over, and over. Somewhere the tunes blur into the background, an ambient mix for one mighty game of Monopoly where we’re all dreaming of simply having a wonderful Christmas time in excelsis Deo.
But there are some songs that we really can’t play without dispute. There’s a slurred Beach Boys number that get’s fast forwarded every year, despite protestations that some would like to hear all the songs on this CD for once! And there’s others that we like musically, but the lyrics are just plain wrong. There will always be a Heaven above us. We always cry knowing that Santa Claus is coming to town. Having had teenage musicians in the house, we are not likely to ask a drummer boy to play for me par rum pa pum pum.
More perplexing is the song that suggests that God is watching us but from a distance. This may sound like a nice idea, like a Star Wars version of God, who lived A long time ago in a galaxy far far away …. but somehow it’s just not the way I know Him, and especially not at Christmas. For me, Christmas is about God rolling up His sleeves and getting stuck in and deeply involved in the messy, complicated lives of you and me. He turns up not in a luxurious palace in Palestine, circa year zero, but right in the middle of the overcrowded, jostling streets of Bethlehem where crowds of people are living and sleeping and talking and buying and selling. He is rubbing shoulders with the bustling crowds and squeezes into a tiny stable for animals as the first born son of a very young mother and a very confused father. It’s a dirty, smelly, grubby affair where he ends up sleeping in a trough made for animal feed. It all feels very up close, very intense, very sweaty, and very personal.
If I think God is distantly watching me, then I only talk with Him as if He were far away and very far removed from me. I only bother Him in an emergency, when there’s no one else to help. Yet His behaviour in Bethlehem would say differently. It would suggest I can talk to Him, like I would to my friend, someone close by my side. George MacDonald, says it so beautifully.
Speak from the heart as if someone was listening, someone who, in the dead of night, does not sleep, but keeps wide awaked in case one of his children should cry (2)
Oh that’s easy for you to say, George as we imagine a soft focused Hollywood movie scene of a gentle Dad getting up late in the evening to comfort a crying baby. But George was not a movie star, he was a busy nineteenth century man: a minister, a writer, a mentor. Later writers claim him as their inspiration: C.S.Lewis, J.R.R.Tolkien, Lewis Carrol to name a few. More impressively, George was a caring husband to Louisa and father of eleven children. When George talks about lying awake at night, listening for his child’s cry, I think he knew exactly what that was like. It wasn’t a one off gentle vignetted scene, but a busy, tiring nighttime routine. But it was also one that takes you away from the busyness of the day, to the closeness of a child’s whisper; to the leaning in to find out what’s wrong, allaying nighttime fears, hugging a little one close when they feel all alone.
So yes God is watching, always, but not, for me, from a great distance. When I talk with Him, when I pray, it is not an echoing shout to a vast and empty night sky, but a conversation with someone who is close and interested in my ups and downs. Someone who is so close He can hear my sighs, see my smiles, catch my tears. Interested in the daily details of my life, your life, all our lives, all our days.
(1) Free earth image, public domain planetary science CC0 photo. More: View public domain image source here
(2) George MacDonald, Weighed and Wanting (D.Lothrop:1882)
I was talking with my grandson today. We talked about rainbows. We talked about going to Rainbow Land. His favourite colour is green (Peter Pan is his favourite hero), so we talked about only going to the green strip of colour on the rainbow, where everything would be green. We chatted wide – eyed about green tables, green chairs, green plates, green beds, green houses, green cats, green dogs.
I love rainbows. Doesn’t have to be a full semi-circle. Could be just a sloping line of colour, but the magic of them get to me every time. I have so many photos of rainbows as I just to try to hold on to the wonder of it all. This picture was at New Quay beach, Ceredigion. It was a lovely walk along the long beach; the blue sky clothed in cotton wool clouds. It wasn’t raining where we were, but you could see rain across the bay. Then the light came through and split the white light into a vibrant arc as He painted in technicolour on His vast canvas. This one was a near perfect arc – and it seemed like it was just for me.
Recently, as I just spent time contemplating the wonder of God’s love for me, everyone, an old hymn came to mind, whose opening line is:
Oh Love that will not let me go
I rest my weary soul in thee
George Matheson
It is such a beautiful song. He wrote it on the eve of his sister’s wedding in 1882. He was 40 years old. She was special to him as she had been the one who had supported him through college to become a minister. You see, at 17 years, he began to go blind. He told his then fiancé, and she felt she could not go through life with a blind husband, so broke off the engagement. At 20 years old he became totally blind. But his sisters, and in particular his elder sister, cared for him and supported him. On the eve of her wedding he had a difficult evening where he said he experienced “sever mental suffering” (1). Out of this came the hymn, written in one attempt, near perfect. We do not know if it he was upset as his sister, who had cared for him so long, was not going to leave him as she married, but it is clear in the lyrics of the hymn that he had a clear vision of the love of God, that would never let George go.
It is perhaps the third verse that has impressed itself on me so much lately.
Oh joy that seeks me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to Thee,
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be.
Sometimes sadness is so hard to bear. Like the sad scene in a film where the rain just pours down, emblematic the tears of the hero, so my world can be full of dark clouds and tears. Life can be hard and sadness hard to bear. I may not like sadness, but it is an emotion that is part of being human. Sometimes I must feel it. If I don’t let my sadness out, it is will not be healthy. I need to cry to grow, mature. Like watching a sad movie. If I skipped the sad bits, there would be no depth or meaning to the story.
But this verse also reminds me that when my sobbing eases, when I can cry no more, when I wipe my eyes and look out to the horizon, there I can catch glimpses of light breaking though. And when this light, His Light, splits the rain, there I will see rainbows. Rainbows being His promise to never leave me, not matter how sad it gets. Rainbows don’t mean the sadness is over; rainbows without rain don’t exist. But if I calm my self, and look at His colourful brush strokes on the canvas of my life, I will start to trace our rainbows.
I usually swim early early in the morning at a local pool. I love swimming and get excited at the thought of it; the smell of chlorine on my swimming costume makes me dizzy! The drive to the pool is a treat. The roads are empty early in the morning and I look over at the Severn estuary. The last part of the journey is along a single track lane and slides down a verdant tunnel of trees and hedgerows, home to robins, blackbirds and hedge sparrows. Early in the year, I stare at the cold beauty of crisp January sunrises.
Recently I missed my early morning swim, but it worked out that I could go later in the day. It had been sunny day and there was an hour or so of daylight left, but the tired sun was slowly, sliding down the horizon to rest behind the hills. I was tired too, but ready for a swim and, as I drove I was thinking of what I would do later, after my swim, when I got home.
But then I turned into the final lane, the usual green and leafy arbour was resplendent yellow. The low rays of the setting sun were catching the hedge leaves and, Midas-like, turning them to gold.
It was then I knew I had a choice. I could carry on, drive along and admire the view through my car windows. I was tired and even the evening was pushing along into night time. There was a swim to do, a drive home, a meal, bedtime – all ready for work the next day.
Or, I could stop, pause, and take it in for a while.
I looked in the rear view mirror – no one, just a long and empty lane. I slowed the car to a stop, opened my driver’s door, stood up and … looked. I looked as the end of day rays set the foliage aflame. For a moment, as brief as a second, yet deep as an ocean, I lost myself in the glow, like when staring into a dancing bonfire, tapping into some primitive fascination of the mystery of fire.
Finally, it was over. I got back in and drove on to the pool. I changed and swam, but with each stroke couldn’t get the picture out of my mind. What had I gained by stopping and looking? I could not keep it. It had no monetary value. It was fleeting. I could not share it with anyone. It was only seen by me, on that lonely road.
But it was a gift, fleeting in time, slipping like sand through my fingers, but etched eternally on my mind.
Life is so busy: tasks pressing, the next part of the journey calls us on, on, on. Sometimes it seems we are pulled along a series of dots, joining them up to make a picture that we don’t have time to see or understand. It makes us dizzy, disconnected, unwell.
I am learning, learning, learning, that it is good to stop and stay a while, ‘smell the roses’, watch the familiar hedgerow … as it glows. It is good to stop in work, though deadlines are pressing, and take a coffee break with someone in work, listen to how their day is going, connect with another soul. It is good to stop when walking my dog around my estate and say more than just a cursory ‘hi’ to my neighbour. To ask how they are, to look in their eyes, listen to their story. It is good, when I am tired and in a rush to get home with my shopping to smile at the person working at the check out, ask how their day is going, when does their shift end? It’s good to stop my busy – ness to look into the eyes of children, to listen to their request for a story, and slow my time to theirs and enter the world of wonder with them.
Why is it good? Well for one, it reminds me that this world is beautiful. That life is not rushing from dot to dot, but precious and surrounded by so many precious souls and moments, that are too easy to skim on by.
It also reminds me that this is what my loving Heavenly Father does with me. Oh dear Lord of infinite wonder, grace and beauty, Who put the stars and planets in their places, set galaxies in motion, and ‘yet He is mindful of me’ (1). Mindful of me – I am on HIs mind. So much so that He takes the time – (Ha!) – He comes into my time – to ask how I am. To look into my eyes, my heart, hear my story.
Sometimes I miss it; drive on by. Sometimes I forget it – like R.S Thomas says in his poem. But more and more I want to slow the car of my life to a halt, step out. Perhaps, just like an ancient shepherd (2) who turned aside to watch a burning bush, it will change my life, as I connect and stay connected with with the One who is Wonder itself.
We sat in our favourite cafe. We had a refreshing walk in parklands and around the lake. We had walked and talked. Now we sat and sipped and nursed our hot drinks; dogs resting contentedly at our feet.
Then he hopped over the wall. So tiny I could have cupped him in my hand, and felt his heart rapidly tap a gentle beat on my palm. Yet he was so bold he could be a giant. A magnificent Robin. Emblazoned in red; beady eyes, black as coal, scanning the courtyard for crumbs.
He came closer. He knew we were watching him. He knew the dogs were sleeping. He put on a display to catch our attention. In a sea of grey plastic tables and chairs, he dazzled us.
Closer still. He sat on the next table over. I think he knew I was taking out my camera as he posed for a perfect side view, legs and claws in perfect focus, looking sharply into the distance.
It was a gift. A greeting. An exchange. We whispered our delight. Oh he knew! He knew he had us, right where he wanted us. We were smitten.
Gifts. The most treasured are the ones we can’t buy. The look of a lover, the soft skin of a child, the opening of a flower, the laughter with friends, the chords of a heartfelt song. Something given from one to another, not expecting a return. We wondered how easily we missed these treasures.
It is Lent. We are slowing and noticing. We are thinking about God’s gifts to us. His love, His creation, His son. Everyday our food, shelter, families. Taking the time to notice and mark these wonderful gifts.
We sat captivated by our tiny brave heart. Then he waited for the crowd to really focus, and pulled our hearts closer: he turned and looked right at us! Staring down the lens. Seeing me!! We gasped and laughed. He knew he had us and flew off, delighted.
A friend saw the picture and said it was a moment of grace. That underserved, but freely given gift.
It was but we reflected more and minds turned to the grace of God. That divine and free offer of help we receive everyday, all our lives. Easter reminds us that He came and lived with us and gave so freely to us. We were astounded that the Robin came so close. We are overwhelmed that Jesus comes closer still, hears our heart’s cry, comforts our souls, and gives us grace to face each day.
7-10 Now God has us where he wants us, with all the time in this world and the next to shower grace and kindness upon us in Christ Jesus. Saving is all his idea, and all his work.
There’s always something so hopeful about Lent, like a tiny speck of light on the horizon, reminding me that I’m moving out of winter.
Is it also that because there are so many people around the world praying, fasting, focusing on the journey towards Easter, that the spiritual atmosphere is thinner, that Heaven feels closer to Earth? Or is it just the wonder of this precious time, to journey towards Him, to journey within?
To know a poem
by heart
is to slow down
to the heart’s time
Nicholas Albery (1)
For the past few years Janet Morley’s “the heart’s time” has been my Lent companion (3). The poems she has chosen, and her reflections on each, guide me to come aside, rest awhile, search into the heart of things, search for His heart. No matter how many times I read each poem, there is something new, refreshing, challenging, inspiring.
Ash Wednesday’s poem is The Bright Field by R.S.Thomas. My son Joseph and I have reflected on this poem together, many times. We marvel at its simplicity, and profundity. In it a traveller turns aside to notice the bright light in a field, but then travels on, realising, only later, that they missed something – “the pearl of great price” that we “must give all … to possess” (2)
Janet has some really insightful comments on this poem. What stays with me is that Lent is the time to slow down, “turn aside from the ordinary routines of our life in order to reflect; to notice what is going on, to detect what is really significant”. (3)
Like most people, I cannot simply stop everything for the six weeks of Lent. I have a family, home, friends, church, work. But, over the years, I have found that I have gained a deep return for setting aside time to ‘turn aside’ and ‘reflect…notice…detect the significant’. I simplify my life, doing the necessary, but giving time to what is important. I find space in my day to pause and reflect. Reflect on Him, His face, His ways. I find having a rhythm to my day to do this, to pause briefly morning, midday and evening, has helped me. Nothing elaborate. But totally intentional.
I have seen the sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one filed that had
the treasure in it. I realise now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying
on to a receding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.
R.S.Thomas (2)
1. Nicholas Albery, ‘to Know a Poem By Heart’, A Poem for Day 2, Chatto and Windus, 2003 in (3)p. ix.
2.R.S.Thomas, ‘The Bright Field’ Laboratories of the Spirit’, Macmillan, 1975 in (2) p.3.
3.Janet Morely, ‘the heart’s time’. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge – SPCK, 2011 p.3 – 5
We love this game ‘Ticket to Ride’. It’s so beautiful to play. The detailed illustrations, miniature trains, railway journeys across European cities from turn of twentieth century names. Yes we’re competitive to beat each other, but the journey to the win is interesting and delightful. So far, no unresolved disputes as we are in a good mood, no matter who wins… I think!
I’ve travelled a lot by train over the past few years. I actually rather enjoy it. The ease of not having to drive in traffic-jammed roads, but instead sitting at a window seat and look out at the rolling countryside. If I have a table seat, I can work on my laptop, coffee on hand, headphones in ears, favourite music playing.
But then recently I went north on a train, and it was not so much fun. I arrived at the station early, only to be told that my train had been cancelled. I was told to quickly jump on the one that was about to leave. I grabbed any seat. There were no tables, and I balanced my laptop & coffee on my knees. My original train was a straight through – no changes; this one had a change. At the change, there was no follow on train! I was going to be very late for a meeting! Thankfully I was provided with a taxi for the last hour.
Nevertheless, intrepid explorer that I am, I made it! The taxi driver was actually chirpy and played some good dance music. We drove through lovely countryside. I was only a bit late for my meeting, and my waiting colleagues welcomed me in with gave me a mug of tea. They insisted on checking ahead for any train cancelations for my trip back south. Only when they were sure I could get back, safe and sound, did they start the meeting.
Funny really. The day didn’t go to plan, but it actually went well. I will remember its twists and turns for a long time. I got to meet and talk with someone new, to listen to different music, to see beautiful countryside. I really felt cared for by my work mates. None of this would have happened if things hadn’t gone ‘wrong’. Oh, it would have been easier if it hadn’t. But the niggles of the journey actually made the day more memorable, an adventure, with unexpected treasures just waiting to be found.
Into the heart of things 
You must be logged in to post a comment.