On a delayed and packed train to London earlier in the week I realised I wasn’t ready to write my next piece on finding our voice. There was more I needed to do for myself. But with the pressure to write I had a choice. Was I prepared to be content with waiting until what I was exploring was more formed?
The valley in winter is an evocative place. It speaks powerfully of barrenness and decay. The grey skies mute what colours remain. And the wind and rain remind us to shroud ourselves in warm layers.
We are not ready for spring, yet.
My trip to London was to work with an organisation where collective pain and hurt has occurred. Some people are mangled. They are not ready for new hope, just yet.
Things have to be said, to be heard, to be acknowledged and then laid down.
In winter the passage of death is vital for new life to emerge. But it cannot be rushed. We must be content with waiting. Trusting that spring will come.
This reminded me of St Barton’s Ode, which I encountered at a critical time some years ago:
I am hurt, but I am not slain!
I will lay me down and bleed awhile,
And then I’ll rise and fight again.
We don’t know how long we’ll be here, in this place. But we know that we are restored and enlarged in the waiting…