Unforced Rhythms

This morning I read the following quote from Esther de Waal: ‘I looked for a while at the daffodils, and asked myself the question: “What do you want of your life?” and I realised, with a start of recognition and terror, “Exactly what I have” – but to be commensurate, to handle it all better.’

I think I can say the same, though it isn’t an easy thing to say.  What do I want of my life?  If I could, would I change all that has gone before?  Do I really want exactly what I have – no more and no less?  I think I genuinely do want exactly what I have.  I am content with all that has gone to make me who I am, to bring me to this present moment.  And if I had the choice, I would go through it all again: The fun and traumas of growing up; the joy of marriage to Helen, and of having children and creating a family; the struggles we’ve been through along the way; the searing pain of letting go.  To love fiercely, to grieve deeply.  All of this is a part of who I am.  That is what has brought me to this present moment, where I can sit in wonder, full of gratitude for the beauty, the peace, the joy that is now.

Do not be hasty, that is my motto.

 

Life at Ngatiawa River Monastery is a curious blend of stillness and action, silence and community, order and chaos, quiet contemplation and impulsive spontaneity.  Since arriving here a week ago, I have spent time quietly reading and reflecting, joined in simple contemplative services in the chapel, and wild meals in the communal hall.  I have seen lots of old friends who have just happened to be passing through, and have made new friends with others who are living here.  A community of 50-odd people have been camping in one of the fields; one of the ewes has had mastitis and one of the children an injured arm.  There has been an ordination (complete with a Maori Haka led by the Bishop of Wellington), a tea party with bone china tea cups, and a farewell to a couple who are moving on from the community here.  The younger children have played games of kick the can, and the teenagers and adults have played Viking chess and games of Settlers.  I have walked in the river, painted trees, plaited strings of garlic, and washed piles of dishes.

I could quite get into this life.

Can I start to put into words experience that cannot be named?  To express the inexpressible mystery?  To describe the beauty of this place or capture the gift so freely given?

Outside my door the birds sing forth their symphony of praise; never ending but always new.  Cockerels crow heralding this new, bright day.  The river tumbles down, washing over rocks and stones.  Each time I pause to listen, it is still there.  The moment is always present, never the same.  Ngatiawa nestles in the valley.  Clouds cling to the hills above us, mist drifting over the steep slopes.  All around a jamboree of leaves and branches jostles up from the forest floor.  Each shrub, each fern, each tree pushing the others aside in their enthusiasm to get to the light.  Bright flowers – white, ultramarine, crimson, yellow – show off their exuberant palette.  ‘Look at me’ they shout.

What is it all about – this beauty; this never-ending beauty?  Wherefore this stillness, this cacophony of silence?  For what purpose this daily expression of joy and life?

And why am I so privileged to enter into it?  To let my heart be still.  And sing.

 

The ultimate meaning and purpose of life cannot be expressed, cannot properly be thought.  It is present everywhere, in everything, yet is always escapes our grasp.  It is the ground of all existence, that from which all things come, to which all things return, but which never appears.  It is ‘within’ all things, ‘above’ all things, ‘beyond’ all things, but it cannot be identified with anything.  Without it nothing could exist, without it nothing can be known…  We speak of ‘God’, but this also is only a name for this inexpressible mystery.’

Bede Griffiths

One of my fondest memories of childhood was of family holidays joining my aunt and uncle at a wonderful lodge by Llyn Cregennen in North Wales.  We would bundle in, together with our cousins and what seemed like dozens of random friends, relatives and strangers for a week or two of fun and games, laughter and beauty.  I loved those carefree days of running down to the little stone boathouse and rowing across to pick bilberries on our ‘Wild Cat Island’, returning with purple hands and faces to tuck into a scrumptious tea; or racing up and down ‘Breakfast Mountain’ to earn our platefuls of bacon and eggs; or, on more adventurous days, trekking up to the top of Cadair Idris, then, tired and footsore, settling down to an evening of communal stories or games. 

But one of the real highlights of those holidays was the washing up.  Now I’m sure that, once upon a time, I was a normal teenager, and made as much fuss as anyone about doing the dishes at home.  Not so at Cregennen.  Somehow, Uncle George had transformed this mundane chore into a time of real community, as we took it in turns to join the rota, with half a dozen people of all ages in an impressive production line: stacking, washing, rinsing, drying, putting away.  As the enormous piles of dirty, greasy plates seemed to seamlessly work their way through the process, jokes would be told, songs sung, and adventurous tales recounted.  And a seed was sown which has stuck with me over the past 40 years.

So now I have, once again, found my fulfilment: standing at the sink at Ngatiawa.  A mish-mash community of 20-30 people (I’m not entirely sure how many people are actually here, and I’m not convinced anyone really knows) generates a lot of dirty dishes.  So there are plenty of opportunities to roll up my sleeves and stick my arms in.  Once again, there is a tremendous sense of community as we eat together, share stories, laugh and joke, get to know each other.  Then perhaps join in as Matt, hot and sweaty from dealing with the sheep, strikes up a Beatles’ song, or duck, as 13-month old Jonah decides to share his meal with everyone else, or chat about our various journeys, or wander off into our own individual musings as Jess puts some mood music on the CD player.

I’d thought I might write some deep, meaningful, spiritual blog today.  But after a day just relaxing, talking with others, sitting in the sun with my feet being washed by the cool, clear waters of the Ngatiawa river, and joining in the simple daily rhythm of life, I’ve decided that maybe something as basic as washing the dishes may be where my true spirituality lies.

Do you, then, Lord,

rise up to meet me

as I run to meet you?

Since I have not the strength to scale your summits

unless you stretch out your right hand to me

whom your hands have made,

rise to meet me…

and lead me in the way of eternity,

that is, in Christ,

who is the way by which we journey,

and the eternity which is our journey’s end.

 

Blessed Guerric of Igny

 

I have been in New Zealand less than 3 days, enjoying the rest and refreshment of the start of my sabbatical.  So far I’ve walked along the waterfront at Mangere Bridge and Herne Bay, wandered through the lush rainforests of the Waitakere Ranges, buried my feet in the warm black sands of Karekare, and splashed through the cool waters of the Tasman sea.  I’ve tasted wines and dined sumptuously at the elegant wineries of Waiheke Island, enjoyed a lasagne with my cousin Nikki and a bottle of wine with the lovely Lois from Servants, and introduced (as you do) the president of ISPCAN to the past president of ISPID over a budget meal in a tacky Thai restaurant.  And watched the sun rise gently over the lapping waters of Blockhouse Bay (nearly getting trapped by the incoming tide in the process).

And now I’m sitting with a cup of tea, my journal and my laptop, feeling totally relaxed and at peace with the world.  Still.

Stillness is not so much an absence of activity as a presence of mind,

an attitude of heart.

It is breathing deeply of the vast sea air,

and gently savouring the intense aromas of a glass of Pinot Gris.

It is bending down to marvel at the diamond beauty of a raindrop

captured in the opened palm of a delicate plant,

and allowing your eyes to roam over the timeless expanse of the rich, deep rain forest.

It is appreciating the love expressed in a friend’s embrace,

and the pain of tears at a triggered memory of Helen.

It is joining in the laughter and fun of a meal shared with friends,

And sitting quietly before the solitary silence of a candle flame.