12 December: Beautiful killers and the greatest love.

September had turned warm again, it was a good day to enjoy a sandwich in sight of the sea near Rye Harbour, and watch the world go by.

There were fewer humans than the last time I was this way, which was in August, but there were plenty of birds, as always. What first caught my eye was a small group of sand martins, swooping and swirling, stirring themselves up for the long flight to Southern Africa. Not quite ready to go yet! Was it a family group, the parents imparting their final advice before taking off in earnest?

A cormorant passed by, purposefully facing the light westerly breeze. A different spectacle altogether: its flying looked like hard work, though we know the grace they acquire as soon as they are in their watery element.

It must have been the frequent sightings of fighter planes this Battle of Britain month that set me comparing the martins to Spitfires, all speed and aerobatics and the cormorant to a ponderous Wellington bomber: killing machines both. So are the martins and cormorant killers, but not of their own kind and no more than necessary to feed  themselves and their children.

We humans know better than that of course.

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Redemption? Half a mile away is an abandoned wooden hut, the former lifeboat station. It was from here that seventeen men sailed and rowed to their deaths early last century, setting out in a storm to rescue the crew of a stricken ship. They did not know that the men were safely on shore before they set out. Their monument says they were doing their duty.

It was rather the greatest love.

(Another day at the same place.)

 

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30 November: The Community of Gardeners

Where the council took out an ailing cherry tree in the next street, they left a void. One neighbour offered a hazel, and another cuttings of hydrangea. With a little tlc they are thriving, but the annual flowers planted between them have not enjoyed the dry summer. Other neighbours have offered their outdoor tap for watering, saving yours truly a few yards carrying watering cans. Someone else has provided daffodils which are now safely underground.

I was tackling some of the weeds which have sprung up between the annuals from seeds that had lain dormant for years; fat hen, various docks, sow thistle, dandelions and their friends and relations. Mrs H stopped by: ‘I might have known it was you. Thank you for doing this.’ And just when I could get no more weeds into the bucket, a professional gardener offered to empty it into his van and ‘save you carrying it around.’

All very encouraging! I’d best keep up the good work and let a few people do their good turn for the day while I’m at it! I thought I had put the bed to bed until Spring, with what I trust will be a host of golden daffodils to brighten up the corner, but no: there’s a shimmer of weed seedlings to be dealt with. Dirt beneath my nails seems perfectly natural for a son of Adam.

MMB

 

A Grey day in Canterbury

As I was walking home at a quarter to nine this morning, the Sun was finding it difficult to break through but there was autumn colour nonetheless. We are in the city centre, at the site of a corn mill that burned to the ground eighty years ago. Top picture is looking upstream; the cathedral is behind the houses on the left; the building on the right, obscured by trees, was once the Dominican Priory.

Looking downstream, the steps, right foreground, take you across the main river over the sluice gates that control the flow – still vital when there is too much or too little rain.

There is a pub with rooms called the Miller’s Arms just visible behind the trees to the right. They fed us well the last time we visited.

The old bridge is called after St Radigund, a princess-abbess from the so-called dark ages when so many noblewomen found openings for themselves and others to be something other than wives, mothers and domestics. We’d better publish a post about her sometime soon; till then, Laudato Si!

29 September: Michaelmas Daisies.

Many flowers have English names that speak of the faith of those who named them. We saw these resplendent Michaelmas Daisies in Folkestone, next to Saint Eanswythe’s Pool which we have visited before on this blog. It’s where the saint brought clean water for the townspeople and her sisters.

But today we remember Michael the Archangel, whose name means ‘Who is like God?’

Who indeed? Passing through Tonbridge I saw another fine clump of Michaelmas Daisies, where a seed must have taken root alongside the line. Too much reflection from the window to grab a snap, but maybe more people see them than St Eanswythe’s.

Let’s hope hearts at both ends of Kent are lifted at the sight.

It’s worth recalling that Michaelmas daisies are officially ‘asters’ or stars, and stars can guide the wise.

Laudato Si!

MMB

 

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23 August: Jesus in the Attic, 1.

That title sounds quite wrong: why would you consign Jesus to the attic when he should be at the heart of our lives?

I remember, many years ago, when I was with a party of people with learning disabilities on holiday in Suffolk. We went to see Tim and Marion Hollis, friends of  Jean and Thérèse Vanier, and of L’Arche Kent. Tim took us on the Broads in his motor boat, encouraging each of us to steer up the channel – even John, who normally said nothing and never looked up from the floor, still set himself to make for the mark Tim pointed out to him. Never underestimate anyone’s capabilities!

Before we went on the river, Tim showed us his ‘Jesus in the attic’: up in the roof he had replaced a terracotta pantile with a glass one, which let in enough light for a little shrine in one corner. A quiet place, a blessed place. The memory has stuck.

Next month we’ll visit the much grander ‘Jesus in the Attic’ which gave me this title, and speaks of a challenging situation, like that facing John Kemble, but which toleration and accommodation defused without bloodshed and martyrdom.

MMB

 

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We heard in the last few days that Marion Hollis has died with Tim at her side. She was a good friend to L’Arche who especially helped the London Community to grow in the early days. May she rest in peace.

 

 

 

5 August: The New Name

He whizzed small stones with skill

across the still pond, the pebbles flat

and fitted to the palm, this serious play

a science of selection and synchronicity:

his muscled shoulder steered the whip-throw,

his feet danced a neat back-hop, he leaned

into the throwing side and a wise wrist flicked,

just so, as knowing fingers turned each stone

into a flight-blade – precise, and frisky with

staccato skips past counting. And so,

this power-pebble, skimming

the still pond’s top-most sparkle,

at last, and with a gentle plash, whispered

its secret as we stood side by side and gazed

upon the ever-widening rings.

SJC

28 June: Birds in the City

 

Continuing our watery theme, with the picture of a Heron which we saw in Amsterdam recently.

Back in April Mrs T and I were working on George’s garden in London. We saw and heard – no way of not hearing! – quite a few parakeets as well as more common garden birds, flitting across from the cemetery park. Mrs T remarked on our recent visit to Amsterdam, where the parakeets were enjoying cherry blossom time as much as the humans in the park. There were also herons at the waters’ edge – plenty of that habitat in the city of canals – which reminded George of the herons he likes to see on London’s Serpentine lake.

Let’s hope more birds adapt to city life – and that we humans have the wisdom to adapt our cities and ourselves to provide good environments – land, water and air – for other creatures and ourselves.

Laudato Si’!

WT

27 June: Water: in their element.

This blog is not meant to be the holiday snaps of any of the contributors, but these fit well with this week’s feast of John the Baptist. And contrast them with the rather solemn fountain at Saint Peter’s in Rome that illustrated the Infallibility posts from Friar Austin!

The tulips give the location away: this surprising fountain is in Amsterdam and was enjoyed by young and old. Especially young? I hope their phones were waterproof.

The waters of Baptism, of course, are free for anyone to request and receive. And they give freedom to have fun for Eternity! Religion need not be buttoned up and strait-laced, enjoy being fully alive! If you can’t find a fountain, find a friendly puddle, Splash, splash, splash, as Abel would say!

 

 

28 April: Little Flowers of Saint Francis XIX: The Riches of Poverty 2.

(Continued from Yesterday) After begging through the town, Saint Francis and Brother Masseo met together to eat in a place without the city, where was a fair fountain and, hard by, a fine, broad stone ; upon the which each set the alms that he had begged.

And Saint Francis, seeing that Brother Masseo’s pieces of bread were more and finer and larger than his own, rejoiced with great joy, and said: “ O Brother Masseo, we are not worthy of such vast treasure ”: and when he repeated many times these self-same words, Brother Masseo made answer:
« Father, how can one speak of treasure where is such poverty and lack of all things whereof there is need ? Here is nor cloth, nor knife, nor plate, nor porringer, nor house, nor table, nor man-servant, nor maid-servant.”

Quoth Saint Francis: “And this it is that I acount vast treasure, wherein is no thing at
all prepared by human hands, but whatsoe’er we have is given by God’s own providence, as
manifestly doth appear in the bread that we have begged, in the table of stone so fine, and in the fount so clear; wherefore I will that we pray unto God that He make us to love with all our
heart the treasure of holy poverty which is so noble, that thereunto did God Himself become your servitor.”

And when he had said these words, and they had done their prayer, and for refreshment of the body had taken of those pieces and drunk of that water, they rose up to journey into France.

26 March: Stations of the Cross, IX: Jesus is stripped.

NINTH STATION JESUS IS STRIPPED Our witness is a Samaritan woman who met Jesus by the side of Jacob’s Well. He told her everything she had ever done. Her story is given in Saint John, Chapter 4, vv 5-26 I know this man. He sat down and talked to me. He looked into my heart, my broken heart, but he did not mock me. I told everyone I knew about him, then I followed him. Even to Jerusalem where I’m hardly welcome. He was welcome on Sunday. Now they strip the clothes off his body, his broken body. They jeer at his bruised and broken body. They mock him, but he did not mock me. Prayer : Lord, we do not always remember that the bodies and hearts of your people are where you have chosen to live. Help us to see and hear the Good News whoever brings it to us. Lord, in your mercy, hear our prayer.

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