An unexpected journey

Here, surrounded by vistas of Middle Earth, I am feeling a certain affinity to Bilbo Baggins.

“This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, and found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours’ respect, but he gained—well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end.” 

Bilbo

So, here I am in New Zealand, enjoying stunning scenery; peace and stillness; time to read and reflect; crazy, fun-loving community; the wonders of creation; good food, good wine (though with an enforced abstinence at the moment – Ngatiawa is open to all sorts of people from the communities of Urban Vision, including, at times, people recovering from addictions); and much, much more.

So where is this journey taking me?  The past three years have been such an incredible journey: I have gone from being a fit, active ‘young’ man at the peak of my career, carrying huge responsibilities, with a wonderful, settled family, through a stroke/TIA, Helen’s death, first Esther and now Joe moving away to University, completing a major national research study, two of my closest colleagues leaving Warwick Medical School, deciding to close down the Masters course I was running…

I have had to learn to slow down, to take life at a gentler pace.  For the first time in my career I have taken time off sick.  I’ve cut back my hours to a more normal full-time job (why did I not do that during all the preceding years with Helen?).  I’ve trained myself to walk slowly, reduced my average driving speed by 5-10mph, and learned to say ‘no’ far more.  At the same time, I’ve felt myself going much deeper – with myself, with others and with God.  I’ve loved the times of silent retreat I’ve been able to take at St Beuno’s in North Wales, my quiet space each morning, walks in the park and by canals with Neo, and a more contemplative approach to my own spiritual journey.  I think I have changed.  In many ways I feel I am living life even more fully than before.  I have been through periods when tears have been my companion, day and night.  I’ve felt the gut-wrenching agony of grief.  And the more gentle acceptance that I’m not always in control, nor my life always neat and tidy.  And I’ve learnt once more to laugh and smile.  To have fun with friends, to sit and enjoy a quiet glass of wine, or an evening of laughter in the pub.  In all of this, I have been so very aware of just how blessed I am.  Of the love and support of so many friends.  Of the pride I feel in two wonderful children.  And of the privileges I experience day on day.

I planned this sabbatical last Easter while visiting Asia with Esther and Joe.  I had considered all sorts of options, and it really felt as though coming to New Zealand and Ngatiawa was the right thing for me at this stage.  I felt I needed a place of peace and security in which to refresh and recharge, and time to explore what this next phase of my life might look like.  Over the ensuing months, and as I’ve spent time here at Ngatiawa, two priorities have dominated my thoughts: hospitality (of heart and hearth) and stillness (of body, mind and spirit).

Hospitality in the sense of being available for people, spending time with family and friends, investing in relationships – it seems to me nothing can be more important than that; to both give and receive friendship and love.  I know I haven’t always done that well, and I’m sorry that, in the busyness of my life, my friends and family so often get neglected.  I will need help, and for others to hold me to account, but I hope that I can make that a priority over this next stage of my journey.

Stillness seems to be such a rare gift in our frantic lives.  But I have been so blessed in the places of stillness I have been able to find over these recent years.  So I find myself wanting to go deeper, to explore the depths of silence; to know myself, to know God, and to appreciate this amazing world we live in.  And I want to be able to bless others with something of the same.  It seems to me that so many people long for some peace – whether that stems from the busy lives they lead, or from violence, abuse, grief, anxiety.  And this, too, is something I can receive from other people.

And now for the unexpected, surprising bit of the journey.  As I have been travelling down this road, I have discovered an unexpected and rather wonderful companion who seems to share the same dreams and passions, and who also has been moving into a new phase of her life.  Lois Baldwin (the lovely Lois) is a longstanding friend of ours through Servants.  In fact, it was Lois who, unwittingly, started me on this more contemplative path by introducing me to St Beuno’s after she spent three months there in 2009 following the break-up of her marriage.  Helen had known her well and done a lot with her over the years in Servants.  Lois had actually been with Helen during her final two weeks in Manila and had been a huge blessing to her during that time; she then came over to the UK later in 2012 to tidy up Helen’s work with Servants UK and internationally.  Since then, Lois and I have vaguely kept in touch and, over recent months found an increasing connection with each other in our emails and Skype conversations.

So in the few weeks leading up to my departure, my sabbatical started to take on a very different shape.  After a week together in Auckland, Lois has joined me here at Ngatiawa, where we are both spending time engaging in the community life here, each finding time to do our own thing (so keeping with my original sabbatical goals), and spending time together in a supportive, wholesome environment.  And so it was that last Friday evening, we found ourselves walking along the deserted sands of Waikanae beach, the waves gently caressing the shore, and the warm southern sun slowly sinking below Kapiti Island, and Lois agreed to marry me (well actually, it was rather cold and blowing a bit of a gale, and dark grey clouds obscured the sun, but she did still agree to marry me!)

So perhaps, like Bilbo, I have found myself doing and saying things altogether unexpected, but it does feel as though I have set out on a rather wonderful, exciting and new adventure.

 

What do I want of my life?

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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

Do not be hasty, that is my motto.

treebeard

 

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.

An inexpressible mystery

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.

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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

Washing the dishes at Ngatiawa

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.

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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.

A sunrise prayer

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

 

Stillness in Auckland

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.

Karekare Beach

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.

The Bunbury Train

I’m sitting on the slow train from Bunbury to Perth, contemplating the strange beauty around me.  There is only a slow train, twice a day, trundling through the coastal bushlands of Western Australia.  They stretch away to the East, over gently rolling hills, through to the incomprehensible vastness of the Australian interior.  Miles and miles of arid scrub and meek eucalyptus, their flaky trunks, gleaming white, brown, salmon and umber in their own fragile shade.  Closer to the line, flocks of sheep and herds of cattle crop away at the ochre-dry grass, patiently ruminating, while occasional ibises search expectantly with their long curved beaks in the sparse marshy pools, and the hot sun burns in its endless southern sky.

It is a harsh, raw beauty.  One that screams out at you: ‘you must fight to survive!’  This is not a place for the timid.  Life is here to be lived.  Fast.  This slow, bumbling Bunbury train doesn’t really fit in; trundling gently through the sultry afternoon heat.  No.  If you want to get by here, you live life fully.  You play, you party.  You join your beach-bronzed mates at the surf club, or for a beer by the pool.  And if you do get burnt, you bounce back quickly with a fresh covering of green when the next rains come.

 

A New Year’s Day in Perth

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‘I said, “O for the wings of a dove,

that I might fly away and be at rest”,

I yearn to flee to the mountains,

to make my dwelling in the wilderness.’

 

So I really have done it: stepped out of the clutter and busyness of my life at home; left it all behind for a while, and stepped on that plane.  At least temporarily, for 3 months.  Setting it aside and taking a rest; a vacation.

Vacare Deo: Being free for God.

 

And here I am, sitting outside on the verandah and Colette and John’s place, enjoying the cool stillness of the Australian morning, just occasionally interrupted by the wild screeching of parrots, but otherwise peaceful, quiet.  With tropical birds singing their morning chorus, cicadas chirruping, and the gentle rustle of the breeze through the eucalyptus trees.  A new year.  A new start.  A fresh beginning on the journey of my life.

There is much to look back on in my journey so far: my growing years – out in Hong Kong – learning, growing, developing – through school and university; my family years – life with Helen, our wonderful marriage, bringing up Esther and Joe, Cambodia and our ongoing journey with Servants, my developing career; and then, these past three turbulent years – the roller coaster ride of Esther and Joe’s amazing achievements, their moving away from home, the Land’s End to John O’Groats cycle ride, my stroke, Helen’s death.  The sudden emptiness. Silence.  Anguish.

Then, slowly picking myself up again.  Learning to walk again this labyrinth of my life.

This time, even more than before, dependent on so many others to support and hold me.

 

A new year.  A new beginning.  And time to step aside.  To pause and reflect.  Full of wonder at the mystery of life.  Full of gratitude for all the blessings I’ve known.  Full of hope for the future – wherever that journey may lead me.

Vacare Deo.