10 Meditations
A Prayer on the Feast of St. Ephrem
Grant me O Lord a hut in the wilds
a place to sit and watch the day
with a well nearby for water
and a wood that surrounds on every side
to be a home to the beasts and birds
and this is what I’ll do: crops will I raise
gardens I’ll lay, fruit will be there to eat
and I’ll live my life before your face
with food and clothing enough for the day
I will answer your call to holiness
There is a melancholia, a certain nostalgia, not at all unpleasant, about a gentle rain. It always evokes for me memories of childhood, sitting by the window, listening to the pitter-patter on the windowsill. Warm and comfortable inside, like a womb, which the sound of the rain enhances, rather than disturbs. A looking, a waiting, a suspension of life.
a day spent in silence and solitude
and somehow the whole world is in harmony
there is a quiet upon the land
even the rain falls gently
three farmers till their fields
alone and intent on their work
their thoughts their own
they never look at one another
a pair of dogs run through paddy
and return to chase after birds
the herons scatter amid much squaking
and landing continue to fish
in the distance a woodcutter is heard
and the day is long and grey
no movement obscures the moment
even the well continues deserted
A day of silence after a long time – I nearly missed it with other plans, but stayed awake, aware. Sitting still, watching the wildlife; a magpie-robin building her nest in a hole in the wall, looking to the future; also there is the usual crowd, babblers dropping parachute fashion out of the trees, a little flutter before they land; squirrels playfully chase each other around the ground, the flowers – and like a wall of death – around the tree trunks; mynahs come and then descend the steps out of sight. And then a chloropsis appears, the first time I’ve seen this bird, it flies into the jak tree, where it disappears, perfectly camouflaged, he bobs about, and can be seen only when in motion. And butterflies: so many of them, all sizes and colours; a pair, one black, one white, mate on the wing; another couple imitate the squirrels in playing chase through the garden. Fleeting moments of beauty, arising and almost instantly ending – which is the true nature of the butterfly.
the winds are blowing and the rain is falling
there’s nowhere to go and I’m getting wet
the lightning is flashing and the thunder is roaring
the mountains have faded and it’s really quite dark
but up in the heavens against the grey sky
a wonder is there to be seen:
a single white cloud lit up by the sun
shines brightly as it slowly drifts by
In meditation this afternoon: watching a crow call to its mate, a short rasp, followed by a distinct click as it snaps its beak shut, and then another, longer, rolling rasp. I’ve always liked crows, they are quite fearless, and consequently you can get near them. They also have a remarkable range to their song: in India they are called kahwa, or kaw-kaw, after their usual call, perhaps the word crow expresses a similar idea. They also whoop. For a long time I wondered what bird it was whooping call-and-response like across the valley each evening and morning. One night during walking meditation, the familiar sound arose, but unusually it came from my jak tree. Looking up, there were two crows whooping as though their lives depended on it. Crows are, despite their evil reputation, quite a considerate bird, at least with their confreres. Sometimes a crow will alight, having seen the rice I put out, and which is usually gobbled up by babblers and squirrels. But a crow will never eat without first calling to its companions to join him at the feast.