Cooped-up Angels

Muriel Ashby Thanks for the memories

2009-03-04T12:14:00.003Z

My first memories are of going
through London pea soupers
to mum’s family home in Cricklewood
and the smuts from the engine in the train home.

At home in St Albans she helped out the Tory party
and as Townswomen’s guild Drama secretary
produced flyers on a flat bed copier that came in a tin.
Elocution lessons smoothed out the cockney
into proper English.

The daughter of a tailor she made all my clothes;
dresses for school
plays – obviously.

There were always word games
– Lexicon cards before Scrabble arrived
and books from the weekly visit to the library van.
Films too, at the local cinema,
always the Odeon, never the ABC;
war films in the fifties, usually naval battles then musicals.
TV only came later and then only BBC, never ITV
(until she discovered The Bill).
And an annual trip to the theatre:
pantos at Golders Green first then shows in the West End
– My Fair Lady, Sound of Music, Oliver
and a local Gilbert and Sullivan.
And she went specially to get me (and cousin Susan) tickets
for Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl.

Mum had a lifelong love of Gardens
– introducing me to flowers and borders, nasturtiums and coleus;
With visits to country house and national trust gardens
Bodnant and Woburn;
Then Arley and Dunham Massey in recent years.
And was it those elephant rides at Whipsnade
that gave me my longing for Africa.

There was always time for holidays.
In the fifties in the UK,
Mum packing the trunk for British Road Services
to take ahead into the depths of Wales.
And however dry the summer,
dad always found some mud for mum to slip in.
Her memories of Crinkle Crags still fresh
just a few weeks ago.

In the more adventurous sixties
mum and dad began to explore:
France, Switzerland and Austria,
mum writing in her schoolgirl French or German
to guest houses for rooms to stay in.

Moving to Devon she found a new life;
New places to explore and new groups to join:
Quilters and embroiderers
needlework and goldwork.

And then as a widow, freedom at last.
Sherry and cake with Mae and Josie.

And the accent slipped,
once she knew it was me:
“Ello pete ow are yah”

More tolerant than others,
when the vicar strayed
and the hypocritical parish wanted him out,
she hoped they would get a
“black disabled lesbian”.

This prim and proper lady
never a word out of place,
came into her own.
After her stroke
When I asked how she was
There could be only one reply,
“F-<&ing awful”

And for the past few years
finding a new home and new friends
at the Old Rectory.
Receiving for herself the care
she had once given to others,

Delighting in news of grand (and greatgrand) children
And relishing their visits.
With a mind still active,
winning the quiz, winning at Mah Jong,
enjoying visits from family and friends.

And leaving to all a wealth of memories.

© Peter G Ashby 2009
Photos at http://www.flickr.com/photos/pegash/

Stumble on the stable

2008-12-13T15:58:00.000Z

Why did Jesus get born at such a busy time of year?
He should have known
we would be distracted
by everything else that is going on.
Too busy to notice his arrival.

The town is full,
everyone come for the celebration
of a successful registration,
not yet allowed a vote,
but at least included, recognised as citizens.

And he would be pushed aside,
no room in the hotels,
or the inn,
or even the backpackers hostel.
Joseph should have booked ahead,
what did he expect,
he should have known what it would be like,
and what she is like,
typical to have the baby at the most awkward time
in the most awkward place.

So a stable round the back,
easy to miss, easy to pass by,
except for the donkeys
trying to get some sleep
after carrying their burdens into town.

To find it you need to look,
you need to search,
make a journey,
you can’t stumble on the stable.

It would take angelic guidance perhaps,
a voice in the sat nav,
rising to an insistent clamour which you try to ignore,
as the shepherds did:
dragged from their sheep
or their sleep in the night.

Or the wise men,
posher, so star nav for them,
fortune tellers,
tools of their trade to hand as they come
from the familiar east into the west.

All travel far from their comfort zone,
letting go of the past,
take hand luggage only, leaving baggage behind.

Travelling unfamiliar roads to distant places,
avoiding the distractions,
the false turnings,
the celebrations and the celebrities.
And there they find Jesus
was always there,
at the centre,
at the heart,
in their hearts.

© Peter G Ashby 2008

For whom the cock crows

2008-11-25T20:50:00.001Z

How many times did Jesus call?
Andrew started it -
he followed John;
then changed to Jesus.

He went to get his brother
Simon would rather have carried on fishing.
"I will make you fish for people"
Jesus said.
Not giving him much of a choice.

Then - having taken away his job
Jesus took his name away as well:
'Peter' he had to be called from now on
Jesus would explain later.
Perhaps.

So Peter never belonged.
Not that anyone else did
but he less than most.

Every time he thought he had got it right
he was slapped down.
"Shall we make three shelters?"
"Don't be stupid"
"Why go to Jerusalem if you will be killed there?"
"Get behind me Satan."

Was it really that bad?
He was only trying to help,
only trying to belong,
to find someone to be close to.

So his natural place was in the courtyard,
outside with the servants,
outside with the outsiders.
In the kitchen at parties
Never at the centre,
in the thick of it.

Ignored for so long
naturally he thought no one would notice.
He could take up his usual place:
observing from the edge
on the outside looking in.
At least there he couldn't put his foot in it could he?

"You were with him"
"No I wasn't"
"This is one of them"
"No I'm not"
"Your accent gives you away"
"What are you talking about. For Christ's sake."

Oops

The cock crew

As Jesus said it would

Well it always did didn't it.
It's what cocks do,
close to dawn.
It's what they do best
It's in their nature.

As certain as human betrayal.
Second nature to look after number one.
And what was the harm
it wouldn't save Jesus, or condemn him:
to lie to strangers.
What did they know?

But Peter knew
and so did Jesus
That each betrayal
left Peter further outside
and Peter wept
From loneliness.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Build your house on the sand

2008-11-25T20:46:00.001Z

Jesus got it wrong
He told us not to build our house on the sand
But to build on rock.

He should have known we would take it literally:
that we would do what we were told
and build our churches
on rock, out of rock.
Rock walls, rock floors,
rock roofs, rock doors
without an entrance and without an exit.

Rituals set in stone
tablets passed down.
Worship only
in fixed places, with fixed rules
and a fixed service, for fixed people.
No danger there.

A place of protection.
Safe from being washed away
of being swept up by the tide
and carried off to new places
new experiences.

And luckily
no space for the spirit to get at us
no embarrassing spiritual stuff allowed.

But also a place of imprisonment.
If no-one can get in
we cannot get out.
A place of isolation.
Others cannot join us
nor we reach out to them

But Jesus didn't build on rock
he didn't practice what he preached.
He went beyond the literal
and saw the creative
possibilities of sand.
He called Peter:
"On this rock I will build."
What a joke.
Not Peter
Mr Shifting Sands himself.
Always getting it wrong
always bottling out.
Unlovable
sink, not swim, Peter.

"Peter do you love me"
"Maybe, sometimes"

"Feed my sheep:
Not from rocks
Not from stones
But with flesh and blood
for people of flesh and blood.

"People living on sand
threatened by the flood
overwhelmed by the world
or taken by the tide of the spirit
they know not where.

"So build on sand
impermanent castles
which can be adapted to need;
or swept away
as God calls us on
or moves ahead of us.

"Build on people
Insecure people
Inadequate people
but real people
searching people
people who know their need of God.

"Like Peter
"On this rock
I will build my church."

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Tears and towels

2008-11-25T20:44:00.001Z

Everything was just right
Crockery and cutlery ritually clean
Food strictly kosher
Each guest in their proper place
Orders of precedence observed.
Conversation turning to higher things

Then a murmur of disapproval
as the calm is broken,
a stranger come amongst them
a woman at that.
The distraction of scent and sexuality.
She can't be a member.

"I know I'm not good enough
but they won't notice me.
If I'm found they'll turn me away
I'll be rejected again
but it won't be the first time.
Only wanted when needed
only loved when used
Every time you think love is forever
every time you lose a bit of yourself.

"If I can just get close to him
If I can touch the hem of his robe
But the tears blind my eyes
as they sprinkle his feet
and I've no towel but my hair."

And the murmur grows louder
as right is proclaimed.
The woman must go
lest she sully the feast
with her earthy perfume
and the smell of her sex.

But Jesus stands up:
"Let her go free
Just bring me a towel.

"Have you, Simon, forgotten,
How you were caste out:
a leper unwelcome
till healed by a love
that cured by including
enfolding and healing.
Does your healing enable
your feelings of grandeur?
That you are entitled
to judge and condemn
those not yet whole:
to despise and exclude them."

So he took up the towel
and began to wash the feet
of all those at the table.
Till he came up to Peter

"Not me.
Wash them Lord not me."

"Yes you Peter,
especially you.
This woman has known love
and has shown love.
If you don't accept love
How do you expect to give love."

"Then it's not just my feet
That need to be washed
but my mind and my heart
both need to be cleansed."

"Too right," said Jesus
"Too right."

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Healing Peter

2008-11-25T20:42:00.001Z

If he could heal the mother-in-law, he could do anything
Walk on water
calm a storm
raise the dead
all came naturally to him.

It began with fish
153 of them - he made us count them. No one knows why.
We had fished as usual through the night and caught little.
Then Jesus called from the shore
"Throw your net on the other side."
As if carpenters knew how to fish.
We could hardly pull the net in.

But although he had suggested it,
it wasn't his miracle. It was ours.
Well OK. He did it through us.
Or he showed us that we could do
what we thought was impossible.
That miracles are about believing in yourself.
Something I have never been good at.

"Heal the sick," he said.
As if we knew how
"Go out in twos and get on with it," he said.
"Bring the dead back to life and drive out demons."

The first time, a shadow
watched from the back as tentatively
I stretched out my hands.
"Three hands touched me," the sick one said.
"Of course," I said, startled myself,
"the hand of God rested on you beside mine."

And is the pain inside
the revenge of the demons I've driven from others.
The needs of others leaving my own needs unmet.

Jesus says, "come. Don't be afraid."
But often the water has risen around me
threatened to overwhelm me.
Even his outstretched hand cannot keep me from sinking.
Save me Lord.

And the beggar at the gate
begging bowl out
as if we had money.
"Look at us," I said.
"Worn sandals, torn cloak,
does it look as if we have anything.
But we'll share what we have
if you get up and walk!"

So the man got up and joined us
then went and shared his healing,
praising God, sharing the gift.

It's as natural as breathing
to reach out and touch
to include and enfold
across the divide not just of illness
but of fear and prejudice too.

To reach out and touch
is to reunite God's fractured spirit
to reignite the fire of his love.

It came as a bit of a surprise though
when even my shadow healed
just as the shadow of Jesus
had supervised me.

Simon Magus wanted to buy the gift.
Which was daft
Since he already had it for free:
He just had to accept it as a gift
and offer it freely to others

"Go and do likewise."
"As I have washed you so go and wash."
The young the old
The dispossessed
All have the gift
All are ministers now
All are healers now.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Fly away Peter, fly away Paul

2008-11-25T20:40:00.000Z

The gentiles were mine
Luke had even put it in the minutes
at Jerusalem.
You can read it there
'Peter stood up and said,
"God made a choice that I should be the one
through whom the gentiles would hear the message."'
No one disagreed.

The vision was mine
The prompting to meet Cornelius.
When I saw the vision:
A cloth from heaven:
Bats and slugs and spiders and snakes.
I knew these too are God's gifts to us.
I knew enough to see it meant
God has no particular favourites.
No chosen people or chosen creatures -
all are his favourites:
to be used and abused
for good or ill.

Salvation is about
overcoming the division
between rich and poor
male and female
Jew and gentile
black and white
Christian and Muslim
Israeli and Palestinian
sick and well:
all are part of the greater wholeness
of God's world.

So what does Paul think that he's on about:
telling the Galatians that he was made
an apostle to the gentiles
and I was to go to the Jews;
calling us dogs,
telling us to castrate ourselves.

Since when did he follow the rules anyway
he stayed with Jews and preached in synagogues.
If he had stuck to the gentiles he would have had less trouble.
Both of us were in the same boat
both at times close to sinking.

We thought we knew what was right and wrong
and especially who was right and who was wrong.
"Wrong," said Jesus

What makes you unclean
has nothing to do with what you eat
or even what you do
or who you associate with.
It's what you are inside:
Angry, jealous;
Creating rivalries or factions;
but guilty and depressed too.

And God
with his infinite sense of humour,
sends you to those who most wind you up.
The rich find themselves in the slums
the fisherman are sent to preach to rulers.

And our arguments and jealousies
over religion and politics
pale into insignificance
against the needs of the world.
The need for inclusion
the need for acceptance
which religion cannot answer.

So fly away Peter
Fly away Paul
Make way for God

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Hiding from fear

2008-11-25T20:38:00.001Z

"Go like sheep among wolves,
with roaring lions prowling round.
You will be arrested and beaten,
taken to court;
your families divided against you;
nations will be at war:
but you, be at peace."

Hang on
Did I miss something there?
Where is the peace in that.

Not surprising that the disciples
hide behind locked doors for fear.
Locked in fear.
Not knowing what to do next.

Jesus dead.
OK, he had reappeared,
but then left again.
Enigmatic as ever.
The Spirit had come in power - then nothing.
We were on our own

But then things just got worse.
It all came true.

Paul said at least I had my wife with me.
Well I did for a time,
till she got fed up
With the constant travel.
The constant conflict
"You bring it on yourself," she said.
And found herself a life,
A place to put down roots.

Jesus knew it would happen:
He said we had to give up families -
Wives, children, friends
For his sake.
We would be rewarded, he said

Then they came for me.
I was locked away, shut in,
held down by chains,
unable to move.
As the guards like lions roar around.

And worse is the fear I carry inside.
Fear of failure,
Fear of others,
Fear of self.
Not knowing what to say.
Knowing I will be left behind,
Rejected, or worse ignored

Jesus said: "Peace."
For others perhaps not for me.

Then an angel appeared,
the chains fell off,
the gates fell open.
And the guards had their turn to fear.
I thought it was over.
Now I would be welcomed back.

But as I approached the door
I knew the disciples were too busy for me.
Only Rhoda noticed me
outside in the cold
and she left me there to go tell the others.

And the disciples
Too busy to notice,
Got on with their meeting
Planning and praying.
Or perhaps afraid
of the guards close behind
hammering on the door

So I went away
Carrying my prison with me.
I turned away again
and went off
alone.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

My name is Peter

2008-11-25T20:35:00.001Z

My name is Peter

I need to talk.

Something happened a few years ago that I need to work through.
I've never spoken of it before
- or rather I've never stopped speaking of it but never of the way I feel.
I've always pushed it away really - rationalised it
- something I've tried to convince others about
but never looked at what it means to me, inside.
It would be too painful, I don't like people to get too close.

Anyway it's left me with a whole range of emotions and feelings I can't cope with.
So when I saw the advert for the group I thought I'd come.
Most of all I don't feel loved.
I don't expect to be.
Well I couldn't, not after what I've done.
Or perhaps it was what I failed to do.
I'm constantly on edge, irritable.

I can't see the point - there's not a lot to look forward to is there.

Everyone goes on as if nothing has happened,
though the whole world has changed - can't they see that.
Busy with their own little lives, their own petty quarrels.
But what does it matter after what happened.

I get these nightmares. People fighting. Shouting too.
In the dark its hard to see. There are torches,
but among the trees - the trees and people look the same.
I want to run, but the soldiers - they're everywhere.
I've been running ever since.

It's no better when I'm awake.
I keep seeing this person, just as if he were next to me.
You could reach out and touch him, if you dared.
But I saw him die. I saw him dead.
I caused his death.
Maybe that's why he won't leave me alone.

But it's not just him, it's everywhere.

The slightest sounds startle me - from the moment those damned cockerels start next door in the morning.
Walking down the street, the banging of the builders
- always hammering, nails into wood:
and I'm back there - the hammering,
nails into wood, into hands, into wood, into feet.
And the cock crows again.

What really irritates me is Paul's self-confidence,
self-assurance, but he wasn't there was he.
He didn't see, he didn't hear,
he didn't smell the hatred of the crowd.
And he dares to criticise us for hiding.
He'll never understand.

The truth is, it should have been me.
I should never have survived, and I wish to God I hadn't.

But at the time I was numb, in disbelief.
After three years it seemed as if we would go on forever. There were problems, there always are if you live that close to someone.
And we knew the authorities didn't like us
- we worked outside their structures and they had promised to get us for that.
But I didn't expect it to end so suddenly
and not somewhere we had been a thousand times before.

And now they are coming for me. Tomorrow probably.

I ran away, as per usual.
But then I met him, as per usual.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"I've a place waiting for you," he said.

After all I've done, the betrayals, the anger, the pain I've caused. He still comes after me.
He still wants me. He still loves me.

Death comes easy: It's the love that's hard to take.

©Peter G Ashby 2008
Easter 1996
First Published in the Clinical Theology Association Newsletter No 69 January 1997

In praise of foolish virgins

2008-11-25T20:31:00.001Z

I hate those prissy wise virgins
what they need is
something to penetrate that
aren't we clever self-righteous
shell they have built around themselves.
Always right, never late,
never a wick out of place.
Trying to upstage even the bride
Trying to pretend the bridegroom
Is after them really.
Letting him know what he is missing.
Never to know the warmth of human loving.

And they knew of course
who the messiah was
and when he would come
so they wait
outside the temple of a distant god.

Not that he helped
Are you the Messiah?
Could be - who wants to know?

But the wise virgins knew
nothing better to do
than hang around.
No life to lead
not prepared to share with a sister in need.
Keeping their oil, like their bodies, to themselves.

Not like those labelled foolish
open, expectant, longing
for the warmth of human loving.
Who got on with life
and had a life to get on with.

They would have shared
their last drop of oil with another
and taken the risk
that they would miss the messiah in the darkness
and instead find themselves.

Instead, find in the closeness,
the contact with another,
as oiled bodies meet,
and flesh joins to flesh,
that God is found
not in sterile waiting rooms outside wedding chapels of strangers
but in the warmth of human loving.
In the discovery that we are not made to be alone
but to care and share and love another.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Father Forgive

2008-11-25T20:27:00.002Z

The Lord's prayer tells us to forgive as we are forgiven -
no more and no less.

Let us forgive so that we can be forgiven.
Forgive us so that we can forgive
We are forgiven if we forgive others
we forgive others if we know we are forgiven.

Guilt blocks the way to God
But so does anger and blame.
All anger is righteous to the one who is angry.
Anger is guilt projected onto another.
Anger turns on itself when it has no other to attack
Guilt is anger turned in on the self;

If we forgive others it helps us to feel that they are the problem, not us:
so we "forgive" the blacks; the reds; the whites; the greens
and feel so good that we forget
we might need to be forgiven by them too.

If we are forgiven it helps us to feel we have got away with it one more time;
next time it will be easier.

We think we have to say sorry
Jesus says we are already forgiven
We think God can only love us when we are perfect
Jesus tells us he loves us as we are
We think we need to improve ourselves
Jesus tells us only God can do that
We judge people by what they are
and set ourselves over them
We want others to say sorry
Jesus offered forgiveness and enabled them to feel sorrow

But it was regarded as blasphemy to offer forgiveness unconditionally -
what if everyone did it,
the world would never be the same again.

When we forgive we expect the penitent to come crawling
To say they were wrong; we were right.
When Jesus forgave it did not demean the forgiven but freed them
We identify others with their sin

Jesus identified himself with sinners
and freed them from their sin
Jesus accepted people as they are
and by that acceptance let them be what he would have them be
Jesus says 'go and do likewise'.

We ask for a sign
We are given the sign of Jonah
Jesus washed up after three days on the shore
between the waves of our guilt
and the cliffs of anger we defend ourselves with.

We hem ourselves in with guilt over habits and peccadilloes
we barely touch our guilt for the major issues
A planet dying - choked on our waste
Millions of babies killed each year,
before birth has set them free of their mothers "choice"
More millions starving so that we can collect our bank interest.

If we can't cope with guilt and anger over our minor faults
How are we to cope with all of these?
Or is it best to opt out and let others concern themselves if they will?
And restrict the preaching of the gospel to only half the population
Then we will be less bothered by its more difficult bits.

Perhaps only God can cope
If we let him
If we take it to him in prayer

God can and does forgive even those, or especially those,
who will not and cannot forgive themselves;
and who as a result cannot and will not forgive others:
who feel guilty about being angry
and angry about being guilty
ad infinitum......

Jesus opens the circle
brings light to the darkness
points us to the end of the tunnel.

It is only unforgivable to deny the spirit
The Spirit is a spirit of forgiveness
so it is only unforgivable to say that it is unforgivable....

God sets us free
opens us to forgiveness
opens us to forgive
forgives us when we are not open
forgives our knots.... our nots....

©Peter G Ashby 2008

The smell of cooped up angels

2008-11-25T20:20:00.001Z

"It's all this smell of cooped up angels worries me."
Christopher Fry A Sleep of Prisoners 1951

"That's no way to talk about your brother,"
said Jesus to Martha, when she told him Lazarus stinks.
"After all he has been dead three days."

"Clear out the cave
Let Lazarus live.
Am I the God of the dead or of the living."

The Victorians collected butterflies and kept them in glass cases
pinned down as the colours fade
mocking the freedom of flight.

The church keeps its saints in caskets and phials
To be paraded and displayed under controlled conditions.
See how we have
captured the essence of sanctity,
trapped holiness in our walls,
pinned piety down.

Angels too, if caught,
would have been pickled in formaldehyde
and celebrated on feast days.
"How great we are to have found so great a prize."

But unlock the door
roll back the stone, break open the cases,
let the spirit go free.

What stink would then emerge, as the cooped up angels fly free.
Generations of hot air
mimicking the odour of sanctity.
The must of mildewed books unread.
The linger of yesterday's incense.
Candle grease stained carpets quietly mouldering.
"I will not smell your solemn assemblies,
instead let justice roll like a river."
Like Isaac, seek instead the smell of a field that is blessed

Break down the doors and unlock the windows
Take herbs and fragrant oils
Onycha and cinnamon
Cassia and aloe.
The essence of earth, air, fire and water.
Anoint the church,
let it smell like a field that is blessed.

And let the angels go free.
No longer hampered by ritual or doctrine;
institution or establishment.
But free to take wing on the wind,
to follow the current of the spirit,
across boundaries of peoples and nations.

Let the people proclaim:
not how God worked in the past,
nor how God is in books:
nor to prayer others words.

But her action today:
her action in you:
opening doors
releasing oppression
lifting the crushing weight of history
from your shoulders.

Then smell the fresh air
fill your lungs with the peace
your mind with the hope
of a community of faith
of angels and saints.

And take wing on the wind
on your journey with God.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Maundy Thursday

2008-11-25T20:18:00.001Z

There is a point
on the sole of the foot
that connects to the genitals.
And which, when touched,
triggers a response.
There are other points on the feet
which connect to the soul,
and when touched
bring healing.

One Maundy Thursday,
as the chosen line up for foot washing,
I notice two groups.

The righteous,
heads held high,
connected already to god
detached from the world
and from earthiness.

The sinners,
only too aware of themselves,
unworthy of god.

As I move to and fro,
anointing the feet,
with a drop of orange blossom,
a touch of patchouli;
I alternate my touch.
and all leave
whole.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

Jesus the wine’s run out

2008-11-25T20:14:00.001Z

Jesus, the wine’s run out
We’ve all heard it at some time or another.
But this time was different.
Jesus, there’s no more wine.

Stop swearing mother, don’t you think you’ve had enough.
Stay off the sauce,
You know what you are like,
you’ll tell us you’ve been seeing angels again.

It’s not for me, it’s for them.
Everyone is talking.

But it’s neither the time nor the place,
it’s their big day not mine.

Yes, it’s their big day, the groom is getting upset.
Can’t you just this once,
not for me, for them.

And so he does.
And not a little, a lot.
Two or three measures, it says,
but that’s twenty to thirty gallons,
how many units is that!
And the credit goes to the groom
as is right and proper,
for saving the best wine to last.
Only the servants know, and Jesus’ friends and family.

Jesus, not drawing attention to himself,
but seeing a young couple in need, supplies their need.
Caring for people,
not seeking publicity or fame or fortune,
but being involved in the everyday lives of everyday people.
At moments of triumph and celebration,
as much as pain and sadness.

And so he is here now, with us, today.
as we, with Jesus, share their joy.

©Peter G Ashby 2008

A coracle on the seas

2008-10-04T12:05:00.001+01:00

Mine is a small boat on a large ocean
The shore is out of sight
Rough seas toss me from side to side
A squall could overthrow me

But in a coracle
no way is forward,
no way is back.
It goes with the flow
Taken by the winds

But it is all God has given me
And God thinks it is enough.

From a postcard in the Barbican gallery

The nun, her hand brushing
the damask silk
of the cardinal's robe,
seen at the altar as
splendid, regal, untouchable,
a splash of light and colour
in her black and white world,

imagines her hand smoothing
the soft gentle silk
of the cardinal's skin
stripped now of his robes,
human, vulnerable:
waiting for someone
to bring light and colour to his black and white world.

Sheldon Poems

2008-10-04T11:59:00.002+01:00

The Sheldon Prayer

Thanks be to God
The Holy Three:
Father, Mother;
sister, brother;
friend, lover

You have found for us a place,
Small enough to call home;
but not so small any need be turned away

Set apart, but not isolated;
where we find space;
but not emptiness

A home beside a wood,
with a stream flowing by

The rush of the wind in the trees:
the wind of your spirit:
which lifts us where we,
like leaves, have fallen;
and gathers into one

The sound of the water:
ever changing, ever new;
clear living water
we can draw within us
to cleanse and renew.

The music of birds
singing psalms
in praise of creation.

A hearth to return to;
kindled in love,
to warm and not destroy.
Where we can be open,
without being afraid;
vulnerable,
without being threatened;
and know the encompassing three
protecting us.

The sacred Three
To save
To protect,
To enfold
the heath,
The home,
The household,
This day,
This night,
Each and every
day and night,
Amen

Written from themes in the Carmina Gadelica
for the service of Thanksgiving and dedication of the Sheldon Centre for the Society of Mary and Martha July 1992
First published in the Society of Mary and Martha Newsletter
Vol 6 No 1, Michaelmas 1992

Walking through the world

1. I am walking through your world, Lord
Your creation surrounds me
Birds, like naughty children, heard but seldom seen
flitting through the branches as I approach.
Bees, recycling an old trunk as a home
Fungus, like chamois leather given life by the death of a tree
Nature creating, and recreating itself as new life
emerges from decay, the tree of life grows on.
So in my life Lord,
let each death - of ambition, of hopes, of fears,
be the beginning of new life
and help me take my place in your re-creation.

2. I walk through your world, Lord,
And see pain all around.
The sad and the lonely
The lost and the dying.

Yet you came to bring joy
The joy of knowing you,
The joy of being yours
The joy of being loved.

So that in all we do
and all that we are
and all that we share:
You are there too
with the sad and the lonely,
the lost and the dying.

The pain is yours, Lord,
as you walk through our world.

Steps in a wood

Steps in a wood, time worn
Earth erasing human tread
Ants turn timber to dust
as all must,
but which all dread.

Steps renewed climb upward,
a gate foretells the way ahead.
The path counts a steady pace,
no quick race
by which we're led.

The power of the motor

I am going out in faith
energy from the earth empowering me.
As the power of the motor is beneath me,
so may the power of God be within me,
the company of the son be at my side
the guiding of the spirit lead me on.
And may Christopher protect me from the danger of flood
Michael protect me from my enemies.
And may I protect those whom I pass
and bring a blessing to all whom I meet.

The huts through the wood.

The home we long to reach
The life we long to live
The person we long to be
is hidden from us by the trees
is cut off by the storm around us
is closed by the walls of our mind.

You are the path through the wood
You are the bridge over the flood
You are the gate to our soul.

Father of all
Saviour of all
Spirit of all

this day, this night
all days all nights.

©Peter G Ashby 2002

Shorter pieces

2008-10-04T11:52:00.002+01:00

Waterfall

One drop of water
joining with others, flowing
into a new stream.

Water falls on stone
reforming the rough edges
soothing and smoothing.

so your love takes me
mellows me, reshapes me
calming and soothing.

Two people flow into one
holding and enfolding,
into a new dream.

The Swans at Abbotsbury

Looking at the swans on the fleet
I thought of flying home to you.
And you waiting Leda like
For my coming.

Angus searching for his love
Found her now a swan.
And taking wing
Joined her in eternal flight.

So this ugly duckling
Given wings by your love,
Would take flight
And join you in the skies

A lone red kite

A lone red kite soars
Lifted high above the earth
Catching the updraft

The lake far below
Enfolded by wooded hills
Still in the sunlight

Fold me in your arms
Carry me above the crowd
Lift me to heaven.

Haiku

A stone stands silent
An immortal witness
To eternal God

**********

A stone circle stands
Pointing to the empty skies
Silently waiting

**********

A naked girl burns
The flame of love she carries
cannot be destroyed

**********

Luke 7.36
Her tears wet my feet
The touch of rain on bare skin
Gently caressing

©Peter G Ashby 2002

Divine Landscapes

2008-10-04T11:45:00.001+01:00

On our first Christmas together
I gave you a book of divine landscapes.
Sacred places to explore
and find space to be ourselves.

So our journey began
as with tentative steps we walked out together.

Over the years, paths have become familiar
well trodden.
Like well-used boots
we fit comfortably into each others lives.
Not pinching any more
but snugly giving warmth and protection.

But always there is some hidden corner to hunt out.
Hidden treasure too,
tucked away from prying eyes.
Or the jealous looks of those who wish us ill.

A lifetime of discovery.
Seeing in the landscape
what had always been there.
What apart had meant nothing,
but together meant everything.
Common places become extra-ordinary
because found with you,
and in them I found you
and explored the divine landscape of your heart.

©Peter G Ashby 1998

Miscellany

2008-10-04T11:41:00.000+01:00

Footsteps

Footsteps

pass me by

Down the empty corridor

Echoed

By the beat

Of my empty heart

Summer of 71

4am

my arm cramped under your body

your hair tickles my face

as I brush it away

your half-awake eyes turn to mine

Our bodies meet

and melt in the warmth of each other

We leave the realities of single-bed sex

and drown in dreams of love.

You leave next morning

knowing perhaps

that we shall never meet again

At Christmas

my once a year greeting

returns unopened

"addressee gone away"

Just in time for my birthday

New York 2000

Jet lagged,

cultureshocked,

overfed,

subwayed.

Walked footless

in Central Park.

0-107 in 60 seconds

floors that is

at the World Trade Centre.

The obligatory

Ashby freeby

on the Staten Island ferry.

New sounds

new smells

new feel

new insight

new taste,

or lack of it.

New York.

How do I love thee, let me count the ways

How do I love thee, let me count the ways

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

that I can reach, inside you, out of sight,

to the ends of you, in our love plays.

I love the gentle touch that rouses me from rest;

I love thee freely, all shyness put to flight;

I love thee purely, for what we do is right

when, coming together, we find what's best.

I love thee with the passions put to use,

when in your loving arms I feel secure.

I love thee that love you did not refuse

and so ended loneliness once endured.

I love thee when our bodies interlace

and when, away, from you, I see your face.

Reflections on events at the White House

I took John back today

to the White House car park.

Though he missed the significance.

I wanted to tell him

but didn't,

that here the world changed.

I wanted to lay a bouquet

like the memorials at the site of accidents

to where we accidentally collided

and fell into each other

and became one.

Or at least put up a blue plaque:

"Here L** and Pete first melded

into one new being.

That rare creation,

an endangered species.

A single love."

John walked on

oblivious

that the earth he walked on was precious.

Here the snows of the long lonely winter had melted

Here the cold was left behind

and I could move toward the sun.

Jesus' love washes off shock

2006-11-04T10:30:00.000Z

I was given a tile, as I said, when I left West Brom.
It told me Jesus loved me.
It seemed an unlikely statement at the time. But there it was for all to see.
It had a permanent place on my coffee table so that anyone who came would know.
Just in case there was any doubt.
I had got used to having Jesus' love around. It felt sort of comforting.
But being on the coffee table is a dangerous place to leave love.
Things get spilt, upsets occur.
And so it came to pass that the time came when the tile needed a wash.
Bring out the best in Jesus love I thought, polish it up a bit.
So off to the kitchen it went with the washing up. A quick wipe down was all that was needed.
But as I wiped, so Jesus' love faded. And now its gone.
All that's left is a plain tile. Virgin white. Hardly appropriate.
And the love that once was at the centre of my table is just a memory.

Sweet dreams

2006-08-05T19:51:00.000+01:00

So I woke up in the hotel room. Down in Cleveden, spending a few days close to Bristol to see a bit of Dave and Jane. But not too close so they wouldn't feel put upon.

The first thing I noticed was that there was writing all over the pillows. I had noted down all the names and phone numbers of people I had meant to contact before I left and hadn't got round to. The pillows were covered in it. I must have been busy during the night.

And just as I was thinking that there must be a way to wash the stuff off before the cleaner came in in the morning I noticed the sound of his radio, tuned as ever to Classic FM. I mean just how real is that, a male cleaner in a hotel and an avid classical music fan at that.

But there it was. And it was a bit too loud. So I got out of bed to investigate and discovered the door to the room was open. That was why I could hear everything. So it was too late for a bit of suruptitious cleaning. I would have to own up.

But then I noticed a few other odd things about the room. My camera case wasn't where I had put it the night before. In fact it was nowhere to be seen. Neither was my baseball cap - used to cradle the car keys, wallet and small change overnight. They had all gone too.

So there I was facing a day cancelling credit cards, trying to remember the car insuracne number as well as explaining why my bed was covered in phone numbers of assorted parishioners.

So I just said, O God, I hope this is a dream.

And I woke up, and it was.

Where were you?

2006-05-31T19:32:00.000+01:00

It was a Dylan moment. Toumani Diabate has gone electric. Some people did actually walk out, though no-one shouted 'Judas'. Some simply never made it back from the bar after Cheikh Lo's set.

Imagine a rock group centred around a harp. Change the harp into a kora - a calabash covered in cow hide with 21 fishing line strings. Then change the rock into a mix of Thomas Mapfumo, the occasional latin beat, and a bit of West African Mandinka influence. Add in lots of heavy drumming. And there you have it. But not the chilled out music we've come to expect from collaborations with such as the much lamented Ali Farka Toure. It was a night to rock.

But this was the usual club scene from Friday night in the Le Hogon Club, Bamako transferred to the Symphony Hall. Toumani with his house band, the Symmetric Orchestra. They come from the old Mandinka Empire - split up by the Europeans into an unnatural set of nation states that have never really worked - Burkina Faso, Senegal, Guinea, and Mali. Now united culturally, if not politically. The kora backed by a balafon and often a call and response with the ngoni (a small West African guitar). And a totally mad drummer with a drum strapped between his legs ending every song, no matter how quietly it started, with a manic display of percussion that you don't usually get from the CBSO.

Not that Simon Rattle's wife ever wandered across the stage in the middle of the set and dropped off the stage to take her place at the front either. Though that might liven up the more boring bits of Wagner.

Cheikh Lo had started the evening in similar style. We had been told in the cafe that he was the new Bob Marley. Well no he isn't. He isn't even rasta. His dreadlocks belong to the Baye Fall, a mystic brotherhood within the Mourides [the dominant sect of Senegalese Islam]. From online reviews of the cd, among them, http://www.bostonphoenix.com/archive/music/97/08/21/CHEIKH_LO.html
it sounds like we could have done with a translation of the songs. But the Cuban and Brazilian influence in the music and again the heavy drumming in the backing made the point anyway. And there was the guy who seemed to be playing his armpits, till I realised there was a small talking drum tucked away in there, the notes bent as he worked his arm over it.

But where was everyone. No more than 400 turned up, which made the Symphony Hall seem really empty as they were spread over two levels. After all Toumani has just won a Grammy for his last cd. And there was lots of coverage of the tour. No doubt when the Symp Hall put on their hits from the adverts concerts it will be full. But for an exceptional evening of music the people of Birmingham would rather watch the football. How sad.

Remembrance of things Proust

2006-02-09T21:16:00.000Z

Eat your heart out Marcel. Did he ever hear a bit of music on a BBC4 trail and get taken back forty years? Course not. It was all flowers and smells with him. Common as muck.

But for me the BBC have brought back my youth (and he told me he had only gone out to buy some chips). With a bit of Davy Graham on their trail for Folk Britannia: Angi no less. Though they never tell you that.

It was the piece of music I had my first snog to. With Marjorie, above the chemists in Harpenden. With her parents in the back room. We were in the front, and I was trying to get into her front. And trying, unsuccessfully as it turned out, to work out how you manage to find someones lips when you've got your eyes shut. I can sympathise with David Blunkett. Anyway I missed, and had to pretend I had meant to all along. That I was working up to a big finish, well she was a big girl.

We went out for about three weeks after that. I got the bus across from St Albans and we went down to Harpenden Public Hall. It was just around the corner from the chemists and I was too young to drive anyway. To see Zoot Money and the Big Roll Band, and the Bow Street Runners - winners of the Melody Makers Poll in case you've forgotten.

In three weeks we spoke about a dozen words to each other. Neither knowing what to say. I might have been her first boyfriend too, though she did know about tongues.

Somehow we drifted apart, though I don't think anything was said. I saw her a year or two later at a party on a farm. But I didn't know what to say then either, so I didn't say it.

And it was all down to Davy Graham and Angi, which is so unutterably boring that you have to find someone to snog just to take your mind of it.

Pick up a penguin

2006-01-13T10:06:00.000Z

I was told that March of the Penguins was a fine example of family values and also demonstrated "Intelligent design" and so was proof of God. Recommended viewing by the American Christian right. So I allowed myself to be persuaded by E that it would be worth being dragged along to.

But intelligent design? Hardly. The penguins in question, instead of having babies close to the food supply, walk 70 miles across the ice of Antarctica to find a mate, a different one each year needless to say. Once found she lays an egg on his feet (really) and then buggers off with her mates back to the sea while he stands there in minus eighty temperatures trying to get the egg to hatch.

While she is away swimming about and eating as much fish as she can find, he puts up with a blizzard for a couple of months without so much as a six pack, a packet of pringles, and a couple of anime dvds to keep him happy.

After several months she decides that maybe the kid has been born so she goes back. Nine times out of ten of course the egg is deep frozen or the chick has decided to hop off its dad's feet only to discover that thousand feet thick ice is too cold to survive on.

And after being sent off to get the supper several months before, does she bring back some decent cod fillets for tea, or a deep fried mars bar? No chance. Regurgitated fish. That's what the kid gets. And he has to scrape around in her gullet to get that.

So much for family values. But hang on. Women going out on a blinder leaving the bloke in charge, then coming back and being sick over the kids. Maybe not so far removed from West Bromwich after all.