W.B. YEATS

Pentecost Sunday, 31st May, 2020

I have read two passages this morning which have settled me. First from W.B.Yeats:

          "Hands, do what you're bid!

            Bring the balloon of the mind

            That bellies and drags in the wind

              Into its narrow shed".

What a relief to know that the creative, the great and many others suffer the distractions and white noise and the lack of mental ( and physical) control that I suffer. I am not alone.

Then the remarkable Abbot John Chapman (I recommend his Spiritual Letters), a Benedictine of Downside Abbey. He writes of God doing all while we wait and wonder.

" Consequently give yourself to prayer, when you can, and trust in God that he will lead you, without you choosing your path. Wait for pressure from him. Do not act unless you must. Let him take the initiative...if you cannot pray in the least, and only waste time, and moon, and wonder, still hold on".

It is Pentecost, the feast Christians celebrate believing it was the time when the Apostles and disciples were inspired and empowered to open the closed doors and to preach the good news of Jesus Christ. Associated with the gift of the Spirit is the great virtue of fortitude. Courage to be, courage of convictions, courage to face adversity, courage to be open and honest and appreciate all Creation, courage to have trust, hope and love.

So I sit on my garden terrace. For the fifth day the sky is a clear azure blue, the sun is warm, the sounds (so far) are purely from nature: the Tay lapping the shore, the oyster catchers flying by and the mild flapping of a swan's wings: the sparrows are elsewhere and the strident blackbird silent. I do espy a couple of thrush and wonder if the younger one was the one I found in my bedroom in a flap and had to catch and free. I see bees and flies and again wonder if they are the ones I rescued from their pounding at the sitting room windows. I know not. I know, however, that I have put aside for now my anxieties, the noise of the news, the reverberating murmurings of cyber space. I look out and see five boats in full sail, a few canoes and two four-manned rowing boats with helms persons. A gentle breeze; the bark of a dog in the water; the rustle of the lawn with breeze or creature and in need of a mow, but not yet.

I breathe deeply. In my mind I return to the listening of the singing of the Veni Sancte Spiritus broadcast on YouTube from India. For a moment the balloon of my mind is tethered, my eyes delight on the Tay, my ears are attuned to the oyster catchers: I will not act unless I must. I simply enjoy.