Jackdaw

As the river turned black below the swirling willows

I turned my collar, hurried for home,

cursed the rain.  But cursing

isn’t really my thing, I don’t

do it very well;  certainly

it neither stopped the rain

nor warmed my heart.  And yet

maybe this curse conjured up something

(if you believe that sort of stuff):  a jackdaw,

young bird I suppose, crashed down in front of me on the path,

looked back in astonishment at my lumbering figure

but didn’t fly again, maybe couldn’t, or didn’t dare.

Instead, he busied along in front of me

till the path left the willows, to dive

into the shelter of some taller trees.

There I stopped, not as much breath

as I used to have.  And the bird stopped as well, looked at me again,

tipped his head to one side for a moment,

then hopped into a thicket of nettles and thorns

and was gone.

A dark angel to match me and maybe to cheer me too,

on this dark day?

Not all angels have white wings.  Or maybe we were

just kindred souls for a stretch,

man and bird, bird and man:  there’s

not that much between us,

two creatures of dust and ashes,

the product of our genetic chemistries -

except that he could have flown,

had he chosen to, or dared to.

Swithun

Well, we got through St Swithun's Day, yesterday, without any rain.  Today, however, it's been coming down like stair rods (as, for some reason, they say) - but we can't lay the blame on the saint.  Swithun - who had been a holy and generous Bishop of Winchester - famously did not want his tomb to be moved inside the cathedral;  he wished to lie where the rain could fall on his grave. When, some few years after his death, the saint's remains were moved to a new site inside the church, a heavy shower of rain marked the saint's displeasure.

In fact that story seems to date from long after the event, and there are no contemporary records (the grave was moved in the tenth century) to show that there was such a shower.  Nonetheless, the tradition that if it rains on St Swithun's Day it will rain for the next forty is long-founded.  And it is on the whole not without credibility, I think - not in terms of the miraculous intervention of a Saxon saint, but of the established patterns of British weather.

If a spell of unsettled weather has established itself to the extent that there is rain around the middle of July, it is, sadly, more than likely that similar conditions will persist through much of the rest of the summer.  And since it rained on Saturday and today, the fact that we had a miraculously dry day on which to celebrate St Swithun won't make much difference to the likely weather patterns on from this point.  (Anyway, it's a Leap Year this year - maybe the saint is a day out in his reckoning!) Where the weather is concerned, we get what we get, and just have to put up with it.

Having said that, there are signs that the jet stream (more to blame than any saint for our cool and rainy summer) might be moving to a more northerly latitude, and the weatherman I watched last night was prepared to hint that things could settle down and warm up later in the week.  Frankly, I'm not optimistic, and he certainly wasn't making any promises, but it would be nice for me, and the devotees of St Swithun, to be proved wrong.

Thought For The Week

"A garden was the primitive prison, till man, with Promethean felicity and boldness, luckily sinned himself out of it."
Charles Lamb

Roses Are Red . . .

Came across this little verse, and rather liked it:


"Roses are red,
Violets are blue;
But they don't get around
Like the dandelions do."

Slim Acres

In the Arms of an Angel

“In the arms of an angel”:

music playing,

sunlight slanting through leaded lights,

the chapel stark and half empty,

the black coats before him as the men walked slowly in,

the floral tribute trembling

as they carried the coffin forward.

“In the arms of an angel”

someone was singing.  He couldn’t see

any angels

but it would be nice if they could be

listening somewhere.

She had passed from here

while still in the grip of that incurable disease

we call hope, in which

the angels are always attentive

and we are the heart of their song.

He discovered, as he took his place in the front pew

that she had, after all, left a little of her hope behind.

“In the arms of an angel

may she rest already safe,” he prayed,

as the minister cleared his throat

to read the verses.

Clouds

What a wet summer it's been so far!  Looking out of my window this evening, all I can see over the housetops opposite is cloud - slate grey, rain-filled, louring cloud. We can get very depressed by clouds, can't we? ". . . but now they only block the sun, they rain and snow on everyone" ('Both Sides Now').

That song, of course, reminds us that there are two sides to clouds, as to most things. On a bright and sunny day, clouds can be the threat of thunder and rain, or they can be just attractive and magical shapes against the blue of the sky: "Bows and flows of angel hair, and ice-cream castles in the air, and feather canyons everywhere, I've looked at clouds that way" ('Both Sides Now', again).

In scripture, clouds are rarely gloomy things. Clouds are associated with glory; the voice of God issues from a cloud, and Jesus at his Ascension is hidden by a cloud from the sight of his disciples. Clouds are signs of blessing, as a well-known hymn reminds us: "the clouds ye so much dread are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head."

In a rainy British summer, it can sometimes be hard to see clouds in such a way. On the grey days of our lives, we can sometimes be tempted to lose hope, and to think that nothing will ever come good and right again. The truth is that while there may be times when we are unaware of God's love, and of his provision and care for us, we remain held in his embrace. However far from him we may feel we are, he watches over us and watches for us, like the father awaiting his prodigal son.

And rain is itself a blessing.  When scripture tells us that "rain falls both on the just and on the unjust", we might think in terms of bad things happening to good and bad people alike. Far from it: we are being told that both the deserving and the undeserving are alike the recipients of God's blessing. The same blessing is there for all, even on the greyest days: the challenge is what to do with it, how to use it, how to give glory to the Lord of mercy.

Thought For The Week

"Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is the ash."


Leonard Cohen 

The Fullness of Joy

The fullness of joy is to behold God in everything.
God is the ground, the substance,
the teaching, the teacher,
the purpose, and the reward for which every soul labours.

Mother Julian of Norwich

Strange Sight

I was out last night for a drink and a curry, and got home (in the car, as I’d been on the soft drinks all night, first J2O I’ve ever had in an Indian restaurant) just after midnight, to see a strange white apparition on our neighbour’s drive. Weird, I thought, very strange. So I parked up, got out of the car, and stared at the apparition, which basically just stood there and stared back. It was . . .


. . . a white peacock. Completely white - crown, tail feathers and all.  Just in case this was some kind of strange mirage brought on by lack of alcohol, I fetched Ann out to see this strange sight for herself. The peacock was still there, though by this time it had strolled - or strutted, really - some way along the road. It glanced back at us disdainfully, and continued on its way in a sedate fashion.  To be honest, I half expected to see a dead white peacock in the road this morning, but thankfully that was not the case.  So I presume it just wandered off home (wherever that may be; we do hear them calling from time to time).

Weeds

Those who know me well will know also that I have a sneaking admiration for weeds - for those plants which so ably exploit our wild edges and forgotten bits, and indeed, any bit of soil we turn over, and then turn away from and neglect for a while.  I called to look at a garden the other day that I cleared and planted earlier in the season, and was amazed at how quickly weeds had carpeted the open soil.  There must have been plenty of seeds from previous years, just waiting for their chance to germinate.

Weeds get in the way of our crops.  This morning I've been hauling weeds out of veg beds for another client - often a very satisfying way of spending a morning (even more so when you get paid for it!).  But many of our crops were weeds to begin with, and some of our present-day weeds used to be crop plants.  I had to ask my client whether one particular plant next to her lettuces was wanted or unwanted:  it was wanted - but two other species in the same bed, condemned as weeds, would have tasted just as good in a salad bowl.

What's to admire in a weed?  The speed and efficiency with which they exploit opportunities, I suppose - I wish I could be half as good.  Then there is the persistence with which they hang on in there:  perennial weeds via their deep roots that you can't easily shift, annuals by the seeds which they produce both speedily and prolifically, and which often persist well in the soil, just waiting their time.  Many weeds are quite flexible, too, able to exploit a number of habitats, and to fight their corner in a variety of situations.

What's to disapprove of?  I suppose weeds are by their nature useless (from our point of view - even though as I've already hinted, the transition from useless weed to useful crop can sometimes be a short step).  But they do take up space that the gardener would want to use more productively, and I suppose in that sense weeds are in it for themselves, they are by definition selfish plants.

Though that raises another issue:  who defines that?  Whose right is it to say what is productive and useful, and what isn't?  And aren't all living things by nature selfish, in it for themselves?  Ecosystems are balanced states in which a variety of different species of living thing live together - but in practice that balance is a balance of mostly competing and only very rarely co-operating forces, so far as I can see, anyway.

So I seem to have talked myself out of using weeds as either a positive or a negative moral example.  No matter.  I still think they're worthy competitors.

Bullfinch

I was walking into town this morning after calling at a friend's house, and my route took in a section of canal towpath where the canal crosses a brook.  This is often a good place to glimpse grey wagtails (an unfortunate name, I always feel, for what is a very colourful little bird).  No wagtails in view today, but a pair of bullfinches, of which the male especially has to be one of the most brightly colourful birds we see in our gardens and parks.  Indeed, someone not so long ago who saw one in her garden insisted to me that "it must have been something escaped from an aviary, it was too bright to be a British bird."  The quite dramatic rose pink of the male bullfinch, coupled with his black crown and tail, white wing-bar and the white rump which is what I immediately had spotted as the pair flew for cover across my line of sight - this is an unmistakable combination.  The back of both male and female birds is grey - but even this is quite a rich and splendid grey; the bright rose pink of the male is replaced in the female by salmon pink, less striking, but still quite attractive. I think bullfinches are fewer in number than they used to be, but I seem to have seen quite a few this year, so they're certainly still in business round here!

Roses

The roses in our garden are a delight this year;  there are just so many flowers.  It may be all the rain - it's doing it again as I write these words.  Though I did also prune them pretty hard, and I've fed all the plants in those borders fairly well.

To be honest, I'm not a great fan of roses, or haven't been.  For me they've always seemed such a lot of work, and of course however hard I try I'll always manage to snag a thorn!  You have to prune them, once, twice usually, and then make sure they're properly fed, and that you remove any suckers that appear - which of course have even more thorns than the flowering stems;  they're a magnet for aphids, and then there's black spot on the leaves, all kinds of pests and diseases it seems;  and you have to keep dead-heading them to persuade them to keep flowering;  not to mention the fact that this one has tall stems that keep blowing down, and then spear you viciously when you try to stake or tie them back up . . .

. . . but this year I'm nearly persuaded it's worth it.  These are such tremendous flowers.  It's just a pity that it keeps raining, and I can't get out there and enjoy their company!

Thought For The Week

"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."

Abraham Lincoln

Jack Knife

I normally spend a bit of time at the end of the day just doing a few clues in the Saturday "Times Jumbo" cryptic crossword, and can generally persuade it to last at least half the week.  Last Saturday's was complete by Tuesday evening . . . almost.  One clue remained - "Predator with strong teeth and jack knife (4)".  My immediate thought was 'pike' (as I had already the i and e), but I couldn't relate that to "jack knife", and my usually very reliable dictionary (which I dislike having to use) was in this case no help to me at all.  So I left the crossword on one side until today.

There are three basic meanings to jack knife - first of all, the knife itself, with folding blades, secondly, what an articulated lorry may do, unwanted, when things get out of control, and thirdly, a style of competition dive.  Taking the crossword up again this afternoon in an idle moment, I toyed with the word 'dive' for a while, but couldn't relate that to the first part of the clue, which was, it seemed to me, the "twin definition" form of cryptic clue, in which the clue as a whole is cryptic, but each component is in fact non-cryptic.

Then I got sidetracked into the lyrics of 'Mack the Knife', in which predators, teeth and jack knives feature strongly . . .

Oh, the shark, dear, has such teeth, dear,

and he keeps them pearly white.

Just a jack knife has old MacHeath, dear,

and he keeps it out of sight.

Sadly, that didn’t prove fruitful! 

Having, as I do, a sincere and strongly held fear of heights, which certainly includes high-diving boards, I did not know until this afternoon that 'pike' is a diving term, and therefore my correct answer.  A jack knife is . . . "the front-dive pike, in which the body folds and unfolds", as Wikipaedia assures me (and who am I to disagree).  Well, it's good to learn something new each day, and I like the way in which a good puzzle can help do this.

Cygnet

While out walking this evening, my wife and I came across a fluffy grey cygnet on its own, along a reach of our local canal.  It looked happy and contented enough, dabbling away among the reeds, and I whistled a snatch of 'The Ugly Duckling' to it as we passed by.  But we couldn't see parents or siblings anywhere around, and I shall go to bed worrying about the little guy tonight!

Found!

Anyone out there concerned about my missing phone will be pleased to hear that I found it quite quickly this morning (hiding under a colleague's coat).  Jesus knew all about how good it feels to find something you've lost, and told two related parables, about a lost sheep and a lost coin.  "Rejoice with me!" says the woman who had lost a coin from her necklace and then, after much searching, found it again . . . and the party commenced.

"Even so," said Jesus, "there is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents."  I too am found.  Over the months past there have been episodes of healing, of self-discovery and realisation, of a new sense of calm, of purpose and of call.  And isn't it good to think that I am being rejoiced over - and you too, perhaps!

Losing Things

Today has not been a good day!  I set out from home with my diary, as I thought, only to arrive at work without it, and with a distinct memory of having placed it on top of the car.  Naturally, I was beginning to panic:  it could be anywhere along the eight mile journey from home to work - and without it, I'm lost!  I rang Ann in trepidation, but the good news back was that I'd left it on top of the other car, so all was well (except that I didn't have it with me, and could have done with it).

Unhappily, by the end of the morning I'd managed to lose the mobile phone I'd used to call home!  When I dial the number it rings - but nowhere within earshot.  I suppose it's fallen from a pocket, but where?  I can live without my mobile, but not for long.  Maybe it's somewhere at work, and I'll find it tomorrow.

Things you lose can be replaced.  Maybe not exactly, but there's always something you can do - or, if you can't, well, mostly you can live without whatever it was, a little regretfully maybe, but still . . .

People you lose are not so easy to replace.  It's sad when people fall out, when loves and friendships grow cool, when families are divided, but it happens.  Sometimes it happens because we behave badly (or someone behaves badly towards us);  sometimes it happens as the result of accident, or because a word is spoken too hastily or else misunderstood;  and sometimes it happens by a process of slow decay, maybe over a period of separation.  Memo to self, now that I've been reunited with my diary:  work a little harder, please, at the two mainstays of human relationships - generosity and forgiveness - and never let love grow cold.

Mitchell's Fold

Last night - Midsummer Day - I helped lead a service in the ancient stone circle near Priestweston, Shropshire, known today as Mitchell's Fold. The stones were erected by people whose world view we can hardly grasp, some three thousand years ago;  but though their time was so remote from ours, I can understand something of what will have motivated them. Here is a height from which you might fancy the whole world could be seen, and a wild place, in which our worship accompanied the sound of curlew and skylark.

Many will stand in such a place and be hugely aware of their closeness to the rhythms of the natural world; some, myself included, while acknowledging that closeness, will find their soul's gaze drawn further, to the majesty of the Creator. And those who call themselves Christians will claim that this Creator, far from being remote and unattainable, and further than even the reach of our vision from such a high place as this, makes himself known to us, stands with us, in the man Jesus.

So we counted it a good thing to stand here in the wild stretch of high moorland, rather than safely inside a holy building, in order to sing his praise. And no less a good thing to draw and drink a pint or two in fellowship afterwards, down in the Miner's Arms. Before doing that, we turned to look outwards, in order to say the closing words together, words to send us out from the community of worship, and into the risk of witness and of service: having known a blessing and given praise for it, now to be a blessing, in all our several ways.

Thought For The Week

“Never measure the height of a mountain until you have reached the top. Then you will see how low it was.”

Dag Hammarskjold

Nice

I've spent much of today in nice places, and among nice people.  'Nice' is of course a rather over-used word, and it has perhaps become almost interchangeable with 'bland' - but I don't mean to use it in that way. Rather, I mean people who seem to have the quiet knack of making you feel better without having to work at it - just by who and how they are; and there are places like that too, places where you just feel comfortable and naturally at home, even if you're there as a visitor . . . and even if you're there on the sort of grey and gloomy day we've had today.

I think I need to unpack this a little further. I suppose what I'm trying to express is my appreciation of those people who allow you the space to be yourself, who don't demand too much, and for whom you don't have to put on any kind of 'front' - and who give you, free and gratis, a sense of being valued and affirmed. I hope I do this too; I'd certainly like to! But I thank God for those who offer this ministry to me.

It may seem strange to make the same claim of places, and it is probably a bit fanciful on my part. And yet some places are just . . . nice. They don't require you do live up to them, or catch up with them, or to give more than you can afford. They're just comfortable and affirming places to be.

Where is this place, you may ask, about which I wax so lyrical? I'm not saying, other than that it's a seaside town, with red kites in the countryside around. After all, I'd like it still to be nice next time I visit!

Rainy Day Thoughts

This doesn't seem to be much of a summer thus far, and, after a couple of fairly nice days, this morning we've been back in the rainshadow!  And I've been feeling rather down all day, not helped by some strange dreams last night, some annoying occurrences through the day, a feeling of not getting anywhere much, and one or two discouraging messages and comments.

So I set out for choir practice this evening not feeling at all happy.  There are several concert and other events coming up, and I'd decided that I really didn't feel confident, I'd missed too many practices, and I ought to opt out.  "Are you going to sign up or not?" Ann asked me, as we arrived.  "I'll give it till half time," I replied, "then I'll see how I feel."

Well, music worked its usual trick.  I do just love to sing, and the notes seemed to be falling into all the right places tonight.  By half time I was quite content to put my name down for everything.  I do always have a song in my heart, of course - sometimes I just need to work a little harder at getting it to flow through the rest of me!

Curlew

I was weeding a garden this afternoon in Sarnau, a little village about midway between Oswestry and Welshpool, and was delighted to hear a curlew calling from somewhere quite close by.  Although we mostly think of curlew as shore birds, they nest on our upland fields and moors, and it's nice to think they might be nesting in the pasture fields close to the garden I was in today.

The curlew is a large brown wader with a distinctive long and downward-curving bill.  Its call is quite melodic but also has a touch of the wilderness about it, to my ears:  it always sets the hairs on my neck tingling.  Here for me it's an iconic sound, rivalled only by the cuckoo - which I've also heard locally this year, for the first time in a long while.

Thought For The Week

"He who does not trust enough will not be trusted."

Lao Tzu

Words based on Ecclesiastes 3

For everything there is a season,
For everything there is a time,

For every action find your reason,

In every verse create your rhyme.

There is a time when we are born,
There is a time when we must die,

A time to dance, a time to mourn,

A time to laugh, a time to cry.

There is a time to plant and build,
There is a time to tear things down,
Times when we’re lost, and unfulfilled,
Times when we’re loved, time to be found.

There is a time to gather stones,
A time to cast those stones away.
A time to speak in urgent tones,
A time to have no words to say.

For everything there is a time:

to tear, to mend;  to start, to cease;

a time to fall, a time to climb,

a time of war, a time for peace.

Thought For The Week

"The whole idea of compassion is based on a keen awareness of the interdependence of . . . living beings, which are all part of one another, and all involved in one another."

Thomas Merton