The beautiful song of a thrush perched on top of a larch tree in 159, singing joyfully in the evening sun. A larch planted by my father half a century ago. Sacred ground of a treasured place.
Of two people who have been together for 54 years, now both wearing out. Suddenly vulnerable. Accepting. Bound together by innumerable threads
Of the relentless, yet mostly invisible, presence of death that accompanies all life. Places we think we belong to or own, or things we create, effortlessly outlast us.
As James puts it, we “are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.” Each life a short story and the remarkable, precious and rare gift of having the freedom and ability to shape, but ultimately never control, your own narrative.
Of the daily opportunity to sow to the Spirit: to love, to give, to serve, to forgive, to bless, to speak well of others, to hope. Or not.
Of the delicious flavour of a tender salmon steak topped by aubergine caviar in a tomato stew!
Of the enthusiasm and beauty of youth; bursting with ideas, passion, fun and a carelessness born of having all the time in the world.