I commune with the poppies. Like them, I have this long, ungainly, spiky stalk, and the beautiful petals. The whole shakes in the breeze, and the petals fold and twist, yet do not tear- it is not as fragile as it looks. I can learn from them; I can take their nature into myself, that beauty, that yielding strength.
In meeting I speak. The Spirit speaks through us. Each of us, ministering, gives of ourselves, like light through stained glass, a myriad of beautiful colours. I want to hear you. J, visiting, speaks of singing hymns in a rarely used country church. They sang, and suddenly there was a violent hail-storm, its noise drowning them out; and then the sun shone.
Over coffee I talked to J of the radical feminist at YM, objecting to me in women’s loos. I see her point. “You think like a woman,” J said. This was the part-absolution I needed, to begin to absolve myself.
I find myself thinking of her, and get enraged with myself. The most distant connection brings her to mind- there is a lot of cello music at the Proms this year. I must recover from this!
OK- it keeps coming to my conscious mind, so I will let my conscious mind think of it. What is the situation now? How has it been? Who is she, really? What is possible? What is or has been good?
So much of my habitual way is resistance. My No is strong. My slow thinking, working things out, overcoming those habits, has a lot of work to do; yet acceptance is just so much nicer!