After shopping at Waitrose Sheen, it’s easy to take my sushi pack and free coffee up the hill to Richmond Park, and get out of earshot from the laptop, with its relentless beeps of invitation to work, play, chat, or read.
The engine is off and the crows settle around me. I envy their uncomplicated beauty. Sleek and black, poised and purposeful, knowing but unthinking. Chatty visitors park alongside and I escape 50m into the meadows. Trees line the horizon and warm autumn wind wakens the natural soul. Chain saws hack at distant trees, airplanes follow each other down their lofty tunnel to the Tarmac, yet the wind can be heard drying the clothes of Summer trees. It’s working. Our friends the birds and trees have changed since creation, but not much compared to our own journey of civilisation and of faith. If they could talk..
I’m reading Viv Thomas’ Paper Boys, contemplating Driscoll’s resignation, and wondering if there is a park we could all visit to turn off the noise of the cultural machine that we’ve built around Christ’s call to faith. Where can we go, together or alone to think. Think. Ask some questions. What matters? What really does not matter?
Clive James’ recent poem was beautiful and insightful; waiting for death he shared his yearning to see the Acer change colour once more through his garden doorway. Should we ponder mortality more? That might be a good start at least framing the starting questions: Who am I? What’s my relationship with God? What road am I on?
Have to get back now. Need to find something important to do. Maybe that will be to simply find some good songs, and some friends with whom to play them.