It takes far more courage, far more strength of character, far more thought & effort, to choose the path of love & compassion rather than the path of mindless hatred & destruction.Anyone who supports war, genocide, weaponry & inequality cannot truly be an adherent of Christianity, Islaam or any other major world religion. They cannot truly be a humanist, a Wiccan or a pagan. They cannot truly claim to be a decent human being.
Let my eyes be for you a reflection of your soul: see in them the compassion and love which is in you.Let my ears hear your whispered fears and, in hearing, keep you safe.
Let my voice comfort you and, in my words, hear your own sweet solace mirrored there.
Let my arms enfold you, strong and sure, and feel the encircling love of Christ holding you.
Let my heart be open to you and, in that trembling vulnerability, hold us both secure.
For with wisdom comes much sorrow;
The more knowledge, the more grief
The old year dies slowly,
in storms of howling winds,
rattling in the chimney pots,
tearing at the naked trees,
ripping them up, exposing buried roots….
thus are the mighty fallen.
The old year dies slowly,
the old year dies slowly,
felling the ranks of our heroes,
stealing their music, their song,
and leaving a deathly silence.
The old year dies slowly,
taking the icons of our youth,
those who reached for the stars,
and became thus themselves.
And led us dancing into dreams
replacing drab reality.
The old year dies slowly,
with veils of mist
and tears of rain;
with fading light in tired eyes
Yet as it sinks in death throes
the new year is brought to birth.
There are many roads to the top of the mountain.
Some are easy, most are hard.
The view from the summit is the same.
Here we are at Cruachan Farm Campsite just outside Killin in Perthshire for our second Snail Camp.
We arrived yesterday afternoon, 8 people and 7 dogs. Time was spent, as it often is in Killin, sitting outside the Falls of Dochart pub with a pint of excellent Inveralmond Brewery real ale, whilst admiring the actual Falls of Dochart roaring over the rocks and away under the bridge.
Followed by a meal in the Coach House and more real ale.
We rolled back to the campsite feeling very happy, very relaxed and very tired! Into the sleeping bags with the big screen firmly zipped shut against that scourge of Scottish summers, the midgies!
The dog, as usual, slept pressed up against the screen, not at all happy with this strange arrangement….
The morning dawned, grey and damp and midgy. I retired to the car to eat my breakfast.
I sat, looking out at the caravans, the wooden “pods” and the scattered tents. There are not many people outside, and those that are can be seen scratching themselves at intervals and moving into places where the breeze is catching.
We are gathering now ready to climb our first hill of the holiday – Meall nan Ptarmigan.
Joyce retired from teaching some 20 plus years ago, not to sit back and relax, but to come from her home in Lincolnshire to the Highlands, to a tiny village on the Black Isle, to help her friend to open a retreat house. Her friend had cancer and a limited time to live.
And so the Coachhouse was born. Together they planned it, decorated, furnished and loved it.
Her friend passed away and Joyce spent the next 20 years running it, living in and welcoming retreatants from March to October, returning to her Lincolnshire home over the winter, like a bird flying south…
She always reminded me of a bird, a bright-eyed robin. She was diminutive, quiet, unobtrusive. My lasting memory is of her pottering about in the Coachhouse kitchen, stirring pans on the Rayburn, washing dishes, taking a 5 minute break to do the crossword.
You would never guess from watching her what an incredible strong person she was. She guided so many through retreats, through personal dilemma, through tears and laughter.
I would not be here writing this were it not for Joyce. When I was suffering a prolonged and intense depressive illness, exacerbated by past issues, by the betrayal of those I thought were friends and by a total failure of the psychiatric services to help me, Joyce took me into the Coachhouse and cared for me with love and compassion.
She has been more a mother to me than my own ever was. I love her dearly and am devastated by news of her.
She retired last autumn, as the Coachhouse was closing for extensive building work and refurbishment. She felt the time was right to hand over to those who had worked alongside her to bring the dream to its present point.
She left as the autumn leaves were falling and the chill of the winter snow was there in the wind. I went to her farewell party, a gathering of those closest to her, many who were grateful for her dedicated help over the years.
I managed to persuade her to have a photograph taken with me – she hated being photographed but she agreed on this one occasion!
As she left, she hugged me tightly, told me how much I meant to her, How glad she was that I was in such a good place now. She would be back for trustee meetings, she said, and for the reopening of the Coachhouse in July. She hoped we could meet then.
She was 84 years old. And had spent her entire retirement working for the good of others.
This past week, I had a message to let me know that she has cancer, an aggressive form that is not treatable, and that she has only a few weeks to live. Her family are caring for her. She has indicated that she would like to receive emails from those who know her, that her daughter will read out to her. I want to write but I do not know what to say.
I write this as a testament to the strongest, kindest, gentlest & most awesome woman I have ever met.
Joyce, I am holding you in prayer and in my heart. I pray that your life’s ending will be peaceful and pain free, and that you will continue on your journey beyond this world.
For me, you will forever be in the kitchen at the Coachhouse, in the garden that you loved, walking the lanes around Kilmuir, moving through the house quietly making sure that everything was in order and holding the wonderful silence you have created.
I will miss you. I will grieve for you. I will continue on my path, knowing that I know myself more fully through your ministry.
Go in peace, Joyce, to love and serve the Lord.
Tom Dooley was a tramp.
He lived high on the Staffordshire moorlands
in an old ruined shepherd’s hut.
He had patched it with salvaged wood,
with stones and mud.
He tramped the roads and tracks about,
the heathery slopes,
The groughs, the peat hags.
He wore a cap, black with age,
a coat patched and worn,
boots tied with string
and a bright chequered scarf,
incongruous colour in a sepia picture.
He built his fire of deadwood,
Of dried peat and scavenged logs.
He ate of bread and cheese, strong onions,
rabbit trapped and skinned and cleaned,
roasted on a makeshift spit.
I heard it said his real name was Colin Ralphs,
a name belonging to a life unknown.
A name given him, reminiscent of family,
childhood, school and friends,
in an age before he sought this
which to him was peace.
Peace he sought after the violence,
the evil, the death, the destruction,
that he had seen in the war,
that war to end all wars.
It ended, not war, but Tom Dooley’s hopes,
desires and future promise,
driving him away to this barren place.
He took from the world a meagre living.
He gave to the world his silence.
Not once did I hear him speak,
and yet, one day, as I drove past,
he stood in the red phone box
on a crossroads miles from any house,
and he held the receiver to his ear
and he was talking…….
Coorlie, the cry echoes bleak across the tidal flats;
late afternoon, and autumn sun reflects in wet mud,
shimmering shades of brown & mauve,
a faint line of silver grey marks the returning sea.
Cooorlie, a thin & mournful sound,
pierces the darkening sky, skims across the no-man’s land
between the tides.
Can anything live in the wasteland?
Coooorlie, and a curved bill penetrates the ooze,
emerges triumphant with some blind & squirming creature.
Ghostly shades of sanderling flutter & dart & run out on the water’s edge,
a graceful swirling dance, partner to the creeping waters.
Coooorlie, the curlews cry, as the twilight deepens into night,
a thin chill wind begins to blow.
My steps hasten towards the lighted window and the bright new flames of fresh dry wood.
Easter Sunday. Christ is risen. He is risen indeed, Alleluia.
The long days of Lent are over; we have fasted, given up wine or chocolate, we have waved our palm crosses, heard the crowds shout Hosanna; heard those shouts change to Crucify Him!
We have walked or stumbled or wallowed our way through Holy Week….
Maundy Thursday with its ritualistic washing of feet, the stripping of the altar, the removal from church of the Holy Sacrament…
Good Friday, the hours of waiting, the church feeling abandoned: Jesus is not there….
Through Saturday & then, waking on this day, walking into church to find it bedecked in white with the flowers of Spring blooming on every surface.
The bright morning after the dark night; feeling well after a long illness; hope after despair; life after death….
He is Risen. He is Risen Indeed, Alleluia.