mountains of ice and a dog…
LIFE IN THE MOUNTAINS - A SPACIOUS LIFE
The cold, the bright, the austere mountains that stand sentry, protecting, formidable.
The clarity of the soul and mind in the spaciousness of the mountains is unparalleled. Unsullied by other humans - perhaps a goat or two, every now and again. Clean, quiet, focussed on keeping warm and my surroundings; capturing them with words, crayons, creativity. All else falls away (off the mountain), unimportant now (was it ever?). Unnecessary, unneeded, undesired. This is all I ever want now. I am too far gone to be satisfied with any less than this. Spaciousness, I say only the word and I feel my heart expand, my lungs follow forcing me to inhale deeply, as deeply as my desire for the mountains. The cold, bright, expanding, spacious mountains. The place my soul knows it should be. So much sky, so much God. You are forced to confront who you really are here, held in the cradle of the earth - strong, protective but honest. The mountains are too honest for some, too confronting, too spacious, too real. I say, just enough.
THE MOST HOLY ORDER OF ICE DANCERS
How odd we are to want to dance upon surfaces not made for human dancing. Is it the divine part of us that seeks to not only walk on water, but express our joy at the blessings of this life by dancing upon it, to music, for others - to dedicate ones life to God in this way? I know it is all much more than it seems to me, but what a way to live. How to pray with every swoop as the swallow, each twirl and twizzle. Flying, gliding, speeding, falling, failing, hurting. Intense, bloody and sweaty work. Life and life on ice. How can you not be captured, captivated, be quietly drawn in until you’ve watched a whole afternoon of pure life swooping before you. I challenge you not to see God in it all. The purity of God given life without the limpets and grime we have there affixed. Pure, divine, beautiful, sequinned life. Amen.
A QUESTION OF NATIONALITY
I followed a British Bulldog and his owner down the street to the Post Office on Thursday. It was drizzling rain enough to warrant a hood,
An abrupt stop.
In the centre of the road whilst crossing.
The British Bulldog refused.
Refused to continue.
The issue?
A puddle.
Despite kind, gentle encouragement, progressing to more insistent and, may I say, frustrated pleas by his owner, he, this fine adult dog refused the puddle.
I passed to the side of them not wanting to add to the increasing pressure cooker of a situation - man and dog were in the center of the street after all, but I did spend the rest of my journey asking myself if this British Bulldog could really be British at all if he baulks at a puddle. For we here are raised in puddles, they form part of our national character… British Bulldog? Maybe just ‘a’ bulldog.
14Feb26