I tend to write for purpose. It’s a hangover from my past when I worked as a journalist and copywriter. This prayer was written for a Winter Vigil. It pays homage to the spirit of the Tao and Winter.
We give thanks for your mystery Season of the North
When you triumph We slam the door, Turning against Your howling winds
At night we dream of peace When clouds bear us far away Beyond the soundless snowfall
But when the door is opened We must accept darkness Brutal hunger, burning cold Another world out there
Tucked away We sit beside the fire Watch the dancing flames Tell tales of summer
Those memories Flashes of laughter Moments of sharing Food, light and warmth Are all part of the season
And so We give thanks From the heart For the understanding The mystery The heat and cold Of winter
On October 15th The Interfaith Contact Group of Brighton and Hove held a peace vigil. It proved to be a beautiful and sad moment of peace: all sorts of loving messages of peace, and even songs were shared, along with long silences and candle lighting. I read a prayer, entitled The Four Points Peace Prayer, but it was not my heartfelt choice. The one I wanted to read was the following, which is called Peace Prayer in Time of War, but it seemed to me to be far too angry to read in a peace vigil, where loving calm prevails. But this remains the better prayer… even if it is angry.
Join me in prayer… In a country lane Where bees visit sleepy lavender The crooning blackbird is pitch perfect And the leaves are twirling in the breeze
Join me in prayer In a laboratory Where the efficiency of a cluster bomb Is statistically evaluated The fruits of its achievements Are found near our country lane Where we meet the ghosts of travellers Children, women and men Innocent, each and every one
Join me in prayer And let us say together Stop… Stop the machinery of war Those that make arms Those that use them Those that give orders to deploy them Stop them all
This is why we pray together… now
Join me in prayer For a world where peace Is utterly irresistible Where killing machines are an abomination Where you and I hear the sound of the wind The birdsong, the buzzing of bees in the lavender And we know in our hearts That our prayers have finally been answered
For the past eight years I have been doing a radio slot on Sunday mornings – a 60 second sermon. The themes have varied greatly, from miracles to uncertainty. Today, the 1st of September, it had to be about autumn… and here it is:
Today is officially the first day of autumn, an inspirational moment for people and poets alike. Autumn is a time of reflection and balance. On Sunday 22nd of September we’ll experience the autumn equinox – the moment when the sun is above the equator, and day and night will be of equal length. Thereafter night will become longer than day, and autumn will set-in for real. Then we too can also pause, reflect and rebalance.
Sussex has an abundance of the trees which flourished in the summer rain but will soon shed their leaves. Green leaves will turn to gold, orange and red…a glorious sight in our parks, streets and gardens. Autumn trees remind us that the aging process itself brings unexpected beauty and wisdom, for who can deny the mystical wisdom of trees and who can forget that trees are not only beautiful, they are the very lungs of our planet.
Sir David Attenborough said “ancient trees are precious. There is little else on Earth that plays host to such a rich community of life within a single living organism,” While the clergyman Henry Ward Beecher said “Of all mans’ works of art, a cathedral is the greatest. But a vast and majestic tree is greater than that.” Autumn and its trees are a sacred miracle that will bless us in the days to come.
The BBC Maestro Poetry Course is great fun. It was created by the great Carol Ann Duffy. Not only does it remind one that the BBC is a seriously good thing, but even more wonderful, it encourages one to write poetry in a structured way. The first chapter dealt with memories.
Tonight we have a ‘friendship meeting’ about Work and Rest at the Baha’i Centre. For some strange reason I always associate rest — contemplative rest with looking up at the clouds. It is as if the clouds talk to us, and remind us of the wisdom of rest, peace and the beauty of meditation.
There is a beauty in rest The moment one stops Looks at the sky The wise clouds Floating overhead That look down On our struggles
There is a perfection in rest An opportunity To take stock To count one’s breaths Connect with the heart Give peace to the mind
There is a kindness in rest A healing touch The gentle reminder That says “All that chaos All those demands Places to go Things to do Unimportant ideas Matters to attend to…
Let them go Drift away Like the clouds The wise clouds Floating overhead That look down On our struggles.”
Yes please, wake up and feel joy… but if you feel you can’t find joy… there are tricks and messages to your deepest self… that can make it happen.
This is my recipe for waking up to joy. First of all check in. It’s morning, possibly… and you have just woken up. Time to ask yourself the question “Do I feel joyful?” You have two choices here… if the answer is ‘yes!’ just bask in joy. Lie there and accept the beauty of yourself, the feeling that you feel good about yourself, the ceiling, the sky, the clouds, the weather… above all things the world. Let joy pour down on you like the very best and most exquisite sunshine. Simply bath yourself in a cloud of joy that stays with you for the rest of the day.
But if you don’t feel joyful, try the dialogue game. OK… you don’t feel joyful, but part of you, tucked away like an old friend has known how to be joyful at other times. We don’t talk about this often, but human beings have access to just about every emotion in the book – anger, fear, sorrow, wisdom, depression, uncertainty, enthusiasm, conviction – we have the lot. So go into the library of your soul, or the hotel of your dreams or wherever you might find a corner of yourself, and seek out the part of you that has known joy in the past. Remember joy. It might have been when you were a kid, or having a good time with friends, it might have been when you were walking through a beautiful garden, or lying in the sunshine on the most exquisite beach; maybe you were sitting on a mountainside or swimming in clear beautiful water but somewhere you will find that piece of yourself when you felt joy… joy just for you, you and only you. Look for that spark – that spirit of joy. Relax and look for the voice and the feeling of joy. It’s all about you.
The voice of joy will love you. Give that imaginary voice of joy a chance to talk to you. Give it a chance to remind you that you do know how to feel joy, you have felt joy before, and you will find and hold and keep joy in your life again… in fact you are asking to have it now.
Lie back and allow yourself to let joy in. If you are in pain, ask the pain to move aside to let joy in. If you are depressed, just push aside any sad or bad feelings… maybe you will even see yourself pushing the those feelings aside… allowing the fresh air, the sunshine and the radiance to enter your life.
I may not even know you. But I do believe that waking up to joy, the feeling of goodwill about oneself and others around one (that includes compassion for oneself and others around one)… is one of the most powerful tonics ever. Joy in the heart is a loving gift for the mind and the spirit; it needs to be taken regularly. If you are able to remember joy… you can experience joy and also express joy… right now. Knowing joy you can make the world around you and for those around you such a beautiful place, a place to be shared.
I have always loved handwriting. I have endless notebooks that open with phrases like “I love this pen, but this other one is much less fun…” and “What’s wrong with this bloody pencil? It won’t do as it’s told!”
When I went to school I took great care to make my handwriting as aesthetically pleasing as possible. I thought I had succeeded until Miss Gilson told me that the lower loops on my ‘g’s, my ‘y’s and my ‘p’s were ridiculous and unnecessary. I was 12. I felt deeply hurt, and a zillion years later I still feel slightly miffed about this, which is hardly wise.
My handwriting was not like anyone’s in my family; both my father and my sister had strangely similar writing – orderly, controlled and elegant. I assumed that their handwriting was an expression of their true selves — they were both writers and intellectuals, and that controlled handwriting was an expression of their literacy. Tragically, when my sister was dying her handwriting changed beyond recognition. She died around my birthday, and I had to destroy all the dear little cards and notes she struggled to write at the time; they were nothing like her usual elegant script — they just served as a horrible reminder of the cruelty of her illness.
For most of my life I have made my living as a writer, starting out as a copywriter for silly products, books, technology products and later for lawyers. At various points in my life I worked as a journalist employed by several weekly papers and later as a freelance writer. When I became an interfaith minister, I started to write ceremonies – funerals, weddings, services and baby blessings. I also wrote meditations, but the great bulk of the writing done since ordination in 2007 has been prayers. I have a website of funeral readings and another called prayers for everyone.
For many years I never, ever thought of myself as a writer, and I suspect this was because I was always comparing myself to my father and my sister, and reckoned that only clever people were writers. How naïve I was… there are numerous twerps out there who reckon they are writers… and indeed they are… and they are absolutely dire.
One day I had a Damascene moment. After a serious illness I left London and my company and decided to return to freelance writing. I moved to Brighton, and felt so much more free as I wandered around the South Coast without the responsibilities of old. One weekend my wanderings took me to a craft fair. In the corner was a gentleman with a Graphology stall; he was in the process of packing things up. I asked the graphologist to do an assessment of my handwriting. He was in a hurry to go home, and didn’t seem to care that I only had twenty quid on me. With some impatience he agreed to take the money and do a quick appraisal. He told me to write down a phrase like ‘the quick brown fox…’ and also a few words of my choice. Then he sat back, and looked at my handwriting and said ‘You’re a writer.’ That’s all he said. He had seen my handwriting and he knew what I was… and in that moment I realised that he had it right. I am a writer. A prolific one… and an interfaith minister sometimes as well.
Sometimes it takes somebody else to tell you who you are… somebody in this case who didn’t give a fig but just wanted to go home.
These words came to mind a day or two ago. They were written for my funeral readings website, but most importantly for those that seek comfort in the midst of great sadness.
An angel fell to earth She tumbled like a stone A meteor A speck of space rubble
She laughed As she entered The outer atmosphere
Just a dot of light She fell from space But then suddenly She swooped Into the stratosphere And unfolded Her magnificent White wings Sailed and soared Progressing Through the blue
She dived Like a hawk Then turned And wheeled upwards On a breeze Like an eagle Her flight was dreamlike Perfection
Flocks of birds Swerved round her Surprised Humans looked up Marvelling at the shooting star Appearing and disappearing
For a while She floated on a crown of clouds Then dived earthwards Riding on air currents Tasting the perfume Of distant flowers and trees
She came To meet departing souls She came for me
My fading light Slipped into her hands And her wings opened
As she left the ground I looked back But the spirit of love Carried me to a place of joy Outside time itself
When people die we sometimes view them differently… in ways we didn’t see them when they were alive. We recall the good and the bad with a degree of uncertainty – sometimes guilt, sometimes sentimentality. There is no harm in being realistic, and with this in mind I have written a funeral reading for someone – very much like someone I knew, who was ‘almost an angel, but not quite’ in other words ‘A Kind of an Angel’.
Were you an angel? Sometimes Were you playful? Often Were you nice? Very often Could you be funny? More than often
Yes, you were a kind of an angel Yes, you were kind Yes, you could be angelic You were… A kind of an angel
When you were funny We laughed, When you were cheerful We cheered, When you were sad We felt bad
How we will miss you With your way of being We’ll never forget you Your way of seeing The funny side Of funny days Funny and silly In funny ways Yes, you were kind of an angel
So now you are an angel For real An angelic one And definitely A funny one
You’ll make them laugh You’ll make them cry You’ll make them jump You’ll make them fly
You’ll make a great angel Which is why We’ll miss you Our favourite Kind of an angel
