A Two Books Review: The Spark of My Womb, B. Coil The Gift of Being Yourself, David G. Benner

These two books are like looking at the same subject matter but through different ends of the telescope! And even as I wrote that sentence, I’m wondering if we’re tackling two books exploring the same subject matter – coming to terms with, making friends with - loving yourself – but through different ends of different telescopes.

B.Coil has written a vivid and imaginative fiction which is deliberately semi-autobiographical and tackles the subject of overcoming trauma en route to wholeness via mysticism, psychotherapy, and psychedelics, whereas David Benner points his readers towards a similar, to discovering our ‘true-selves-in-Christ’ via gospel meditation.

I loved both books.

The Spark of My Womb often has a light touch, is humorous, with a fire motif running through it like the letters in a stick of rock. Its raw honesty and depth of compassion made reading compelling.

The Gift of Being Yourself was equally engaging, entirely theoretical but sheds light in every chapter like a good firework display, where the careful academic approach is forgotten once you are drawn into the transformational truth that Brenner’s argument that the gospel is not among us simply to re-connect us with God as a loving heavenly Father, but to re-connect us with ourselves.

Some detail.

Spark is very female-centric and has 5 main characters. Or maybe 6 if you include the candle.

Amy, a 39-year-old depressive and OCD sufferer, whose therapist, Lyz, has summed her up as someone who suffers from a ‘chronic, sometimes, debilitating, anxiety that centres around ‘your’ lack of self-worth’ almost on a whim decides to travel to London, ‘I know what I need: a paid for London vacation in which I clear my aura, become whole, and eat all the gluten’. She finds her way to Dr Lauren, who runs self-healing retreats in a tree house and uses psilocybin, a psychedelic, in her treatments.

Meanwhile, London (a person, not the place) is off to meet Buddhist Peggy, who styles herself as an ‘Expert Guide’ and also uses psychedelics. London says of herself, ‘I can not fathom a life without my triggers, I can not imagine an existence where I do not have to cater to my traumas.’ And we learn that her traumas include her mother dying when she was 6, her childhood house burning down, and having a stillborn baby in her late twenties.

The book travels with all four women, including the therapists, in their respective search for wholeness. Spark ends with an intriguing and satisfying twist for its resolution.

If Spark is grounded in an ill-defined New Age/Buddhist spirituality, The Gift is profoundly rooted in biblical Christianity with an emphasis on what Benner describes as ‘Spirit-guided meditation on the gospels’ where ‘Spirit’ refers to God, the Holy Spirit.

Benner leans heavily on Trappist Monk, Thomas Merton’s adage that ‘If I find Him (God) I will find myself and if I find my true self I will find Him’ and 4th/5th Century theologian, Augustine’s prayer ‘Grant, Lord, that I may know myself that I may know thee’.

To illustrate this journey to knowing God and therefore finding oneself, Benner takes a close look at Peter, the apostle, and how his knowledge of Jesus grew as did his discovery of himself.

He tracks Peter from the initial ‘Follow me’ invitation, through walking on the water and sinking, and on to his bold assertion that he would follow Jesus come what may, whom he now knew as Messiah (Christ). Then his failure in his denial of knowing Christ after Jesus’s arrest. Courage and lack of courage, fruitful preaching and personal failure, all come to a climax in meeting Jesus on the beach after the resurrection, when he learns more about Jesus’s capacity to forgive, and, specifically, to forgive him and recommission him.

In a passage that is surprisingly similar in analysis to a similar observation in Spark, Benner writes that the person we call ‘I’ is really a ‘family of part-selves’ and that ‘Christian spirituality involves…exposing (our part-selves) to God’s love and letting Him weave into the new person He is making’. And, in Spark, Coil speaks through her character Amy, who is bemoaning that a book she is writing seems to belong to numerous genres and then realises ‘I realised my novel is a reflection of me. I have always been at the tiny parts of everything’ and then speaks of her hope that her encounter with Dr Lauren will result in ‘integration’, another word for wholeness.

Whereas Coil, through Spark, advocates a combination of psychotherapy, chemically assisted perhaps, Benner, himself a psychotherapist and spiritual director, testifies that ‘spending time with Jesus in gospel meditation has…put flesh on…God, who I have been seeking to know’

Two very different books. Two very different routes to wholeness from brokenness, it’s over to the reader to assess each approach.

Hebrews - Back to the Burning Bush Report #3

The account of Moses’s distraction by a bush that appeared to be burning but never consumed is well known. The initial distraction quickly transformed into a holy encounter with God, Moses removed his shoes and walked barefoot on holy ground.

This is as typical as it is unique. Something gets our attention and before we know it we’re grappling with a depth of thought that carries us towards God…or God comes close to us.

I’m reading through Hebrews in the New Testament (my money is on Paul as the author, but the authorship isn’t known).

This series is like a journalist reporting on scenes he’s been sent to comment on.

Report 3 – repentance as a living stone in the foundation of believers…not before we become Christians

‘let us go on to perfection, not laying again the foundation of repentance from dead works and of faith towards God’ Heb 6 v 1

That word Repentance. Such a bad image. Bad press. Bad ‘optics’. In reality perhaps the sweetest word in the English language. Repentance is that sweet spot, that sweet moment, when our pride, anger, bitterness, indignation, guilt, shame, jealousy is too heavy a burden to carry, and we collapse under the weight of it…and, finally, take it off. In taking it off, we confess, we pour it all out to God or another person. It paves the way for peace and reconciliation, for an embrace, for love and friendship to blossom once more.

When John the Baptist, Jesus, and then Peter and countless preachers since have spoken, the first words on their lips are ‘Repent…and believe’. It has a dual meaning. One is, as above, to lay down all our burdens, to come out from behind our fig leaves and stand naked before God to receive His forgiveness and kindness and love. The second meaning is more mental, to change our thinking…about God Himself. Often from a tyrannical, angry, authority figure forever disapproving and full of wrath towards a God who is love and reaching out to us to invite us into His kingdom.

If that is one of the steps wrapped in the experience of becoming a Christian, that is NOT what this verse is referring to.

The context of the whole letter is to encourage Jewish believers to press on in Christ to spiritual maturity…to ‘perfection’… and not to slip back under the Law. It is important, therefore, to realise that in the life of a believer there are some living foundation stones – including ‘repentance from dead works’ - that START when someone believes and CONTINUE in the life of the believer.

This letter, after all, is written to believers, not those considering following Christ!

Given that that is true, what are the ‘dead works’ that require repentance?

In the simplest terms, a dead work is anything that has not been borne from faith, anything that is not directed by the Spirit, but its origins lie in the ‘flesh’ that is the soul acting independently of the Holy Spirit-our spirit communion.

For example, you might have felt called into leading worship by the Spirit and confirmed by those around you in church. A good start, you’re being led by the Spirit.

But then you go about the task relying on your musical ability, your organisation strengths, your influence in the church to assemble a team, and your imagination or poetic thinking to compliment the teaching with a series of songs that illustrate the word.

to lay down all our burdens, to come out from behind our fig leaves and stand naked before God to receive His forgiveness and kindness and love

None of the above is overtly ‘sinful’, who could fault it? But it has zilch to do with your calling, or the way ‘faith’ operates in the kingdom and in that sweet communion between God and us.

Eventually God convicts you that you’ve gone ‘off piste’ and ended up in the flesh. So, your living foundation kicks in, you know what to do, you lay all that effort down, you unburden yourself from the weight of it all; you repent of a dead work. And in doing so, you open yourself up to fresh faith in God. The God who called you will also equip you.

You still have your musical ability and your natural talents to organise songs and a band, but now everything has changed. Rather than relying on these things, you are now moved by the wind and worship in spirit and truth. You end up infecting everyone near you, your band, and more importantly the congregation to do likewise. No longer is it a series of songs that touches solely the mind and emotions, but the people are led deeper, into the presence of God Himself, to worship in spirt and truth.

In other words, God can differentiate between ‘dead works’ and those that bring life. It’s like pruning an apple tree or a rose bush: for the sake of better fruit, a wise gardener will prune what looks like perfectly healthy branches. The gardener knows, however, time has come to cut it out.

Isn’t it easy to continue to do x,y,z, out of duty, politeness, or enthusiasm…but not led by the Spirit? This is not a recipe for laziness, or passivity, the writer, after all, is urging them on, but as led by the Spirit, not by the flesh, not by our ideas in some independent spirit, in a frenzy of works that do not find their origin in God.

My shoes are off…I’m walking on holy ground

My shoes are off. I’m walking on holy ground. I dare not do anything that isn’t from His Spirit or I make a mockery of calling Christ ‘Lord’, but, if I do, I know he will draw me back to that sweet spot of repentance from dead works and renewed faith. True faith has a wonderful aroma, like freshly baked bread. There’s no mistaking it.

They say

They say a poem should
Spit like fat on a red-hot pan
Etna’s secrets outpoured

They say a poet
Sinks into hell and
Flies with the angels

Is as weighed down
With endless joy
As with sorrow, they say

But they mistake fire
For a hand on the latch
Opening the heart

Unseen moments
When all you can say
Is, ‘The door’s open’

Hebrews - Back to the Burning Bush

The account of Moses’s distraction by a bush that appeared to be burning but never consumed is well known. The initial distraction quickly transformed into a holy encounter with God, Moses removed his shoes and walked barefoot on holy ground.

This is as typical as it is unique. Something gets our attention and before we know it we’re grappling with a depth of thought that carries us towards God…or God comes close to us.

I’m reading through Hebrews in the New Testament (my money is on Paul as the author, but the authorship isn’t known).

This series is like a journalist reporting on scenes he’s been sent to comment on.

Report Two takes us to two verses in chapter 4.

‘For he who has entered His rest has himself also ceased from his works as God from His’ v10

‘For the word of God is living and powerful, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart’ v 12

It is clear from Paul’s epistles, especially to the Galatians, that as believers we are not bound by the Law of Moses, which includes Sabbath observance i.e. no work from sunset on Friday evening to sunset on Saturday. For Jewish believers this is radical. It’s one thing to have private convictions, but failing to celebrate Sabbath within the context of Jewish culture is to challenge the traditional rhythms of family and community life and could easily be interpreted as neglect rather than freedom. Of course, Paul would have preached that Jewish believers are as free to celebrate the Sabbath as not…but that whatever they do, they should do in honour of Lord, Jesus the Messiah. For Gentile believers, who never had celebrated the Jewish Sabbath, this was never an issue, but Hebrews was written to Jewish believers who were always tempted not to stick out like a sore thumb, and return to Judaism with all its cultural comforts, to be bound again by the Law of Moses and the traditions of the elders.

In the early decades, after the resurrection and Pentecost, the apostles and believers were mainly Jewish believers. By the second century, however, the majority of believers were Gentiles and worship meetings shifted from the Sabbath to Sunday.

Many Christian groups, since those days, have equated Sundays, the day of the resurrection, with the Sabbath. Up until the 1970s in Britain, Sunday was a ‘day of rest’. The vast majority of shops were closed. It was a quiet day. No football, no sport, no work.

But none of these outward conventions, traditions, or outward observances scratch the surface of what is meant in verse 12.

The ‘rest’ that is spoken of in v10 is designed to be a permanent state of mind and experience of every believer. Not an outward Sabbath, but an inward, inner rest that is obtained when faith is operating.

The opposite to faith is a striving, desperate attempt to achieve, to be significant, to make our mark, to ‘work’ at life. In its most refined form, this coalesces, especially for Jews, around a hopeless quest for righteousness through obedience to the Law.

But the writer of Hebrews writes that when we ‘cease from our works’ we enter His rest, God’s rest. Out of that ‘rest’ comes all things. Jesus said ‘I do only what I see my Father in heaven doing’. It is just like this. Jesus did nothing from his own strength, resources, or abilities…but as God worked through Him.

This is radical Christianity!

By all means, meet on Resurrection Sundays and give glory to God, sing your heart out to God, shout your Amens, receive bread and wine, weep with those who weep, and rejoice with those who are rejoicing, be fed by preaching, teaching, and prophesying. This is all good…but it may not be the ’rest’ that is calling to you. By all means, stop your outer work for one day a week and call it Sabbath - in 30+ years as a secondary school teacher, I did no work on Sundays, but I didn’t confuse outward observance with the totality of the ’Sabbath rest’ that is spoken about in verse 10.

Let me give a simple example of how I was taught this.

A long time ago, I was hitchhiking from Plymouth to Exeter and needed to get home by 6 pm. I tried every trick in the book, but no one was stopping. Somehow, I knew this was a test of faith…not in my ability to attract a list, but in God Himself. I can remember laughing to myself as I ‘ceased from my work.’ Minutes later, someone stopped and not only gave me a lift towards Exeter, but diverted out of his way and delivered me to my front door. As I walked from his car to the front door, church bells announced the time: 6pm precisely.

‘For the word of God is living and powerful, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart’ v 12

In the above example, the word of God – in part by His Spirit communing directly with my spirit and via verse 10 – pierced between my soulish attempt to hitchhike and reach my destination on time. The soul is composed of our thinking, our emotions and our will, vital components of who we are, our personalities. Our souls are great servants but not great masters. That is reserved for the spirit-Spirit communion between God and us, the place where the living word of God pierces.

As the scripture says, ‘it is the entrance of His word that gives light’, not the existence of the word, not a black bible, not the finest of preaching, not the evangelical doctrine of the infallibility, inerrancy, and inspiration of scripture.

Only the Holy Spirit can take the written word of God and thrust it into our spirit so that we ‘know’ that the word is living and powerful and not a dusty academic thesis for our minds to feed on alone.

In those moments on the road from Plymouth to Exeter, my spirit was filled with faith, and my soul found its ‘rest’, its thoughts and intents exposed: the intent was good, but the thoughts had been about how I could achieve the result, not God. In His love and mercy, I learnt an important lesson…to which I have had to return; discipleship deepens.

You may consider that my example of hitchhiking is trivial in comparison with deeper challenges we all face from time to time. Of course, you are right. It is. But often it is the lessons we learn in small episodes of life that stand us in good stead when the storms come. Let us not despise the day of small things (Zech 4v10).

We stand on holy ground.

Hebrews - Back to the Burning Bush

The account of Moses’s distraction by a bush that appeared to be burning but never consumed is well known. The initial distraction quickly transformed into a holy encounter with God, Moses removed his shoes and walked barefoot on holy ground.

This is as typical as it is unique. Something gets our attention and before we know it we’re grappling with a depth of thought that carries us towards God…or God comes close to us.

I’m reading through Hebrews in the New Testament (my money is on Paul as the author, but the authorship isn’t known).

This series is like a journalist reporting on scenes he’s been sent to comment on.

Report One looks at the opening verses in chapter 2

‘How shall we escape if we neglect so great a salvation which at the first began to be spoken by the Lord and was confirmed to us by those who heard Him. God also bearing witness both with signs and wonders, with various miracles, and gifts (or distributions) of the Holy Spirit according to His will for He has not put the world to come, of which we speak, in subjection to angels.’

For intellectual study, you may be drawn into the importance of unravelling the timelines discussed in these verses. And it is important and should not be shirked. Apart from never wanting to avoid the truth, the contrast between what happened in the past what is and what is to come is of paramount importance to the writer of Hebrews. The whole letter is written to a group of Jewish believers who were under immense pressure to return to the past, to being Jews under Moses, under the Law and not pressing forward in Christ.

The writer is pleading with them to press on to maturity in Christ (read the end of chapter 5 and the start of chapter 6).

But the heart of this passage contains a line that seems to be almost thrown in as an afterthought…but for us in our generation and context in many western churches, whether liberal or evangelical are like the burning bush.

God also bearing witness both with signs and wonders, with various miracles, and gifts (or distributions) of the Holy Spirit

I was discussing Christianity with a friend of mine whose image of Christianity is all about following rules, regulations, good works, and religious rituals. Such a travesty. So far removed from the Jesus we encounter in the gospels, or the disciples preaching the good news (‘gospel’) after the resurrection and baptism in the Spirit at Pentecost.

Normal Christianity is summarised in these verses.

at the first began to be spoken by the Lord and was confirmed to us by those who heard Him. God also bearing witness both with signs and wonders, with various miracles, and gifts (or distributions) of the Holy Spirit

Jesus preached ‘repent and believe because the kingdom of God is within reach’. After the resurrection, the disciples and believers repeated the message and, just as miracles became the norm in Jesus’ ministry so too with the disciples.

This is true Christianity. We preach or proclaim the good news, and God bears witness with signs, wonders, and miracles.

Moses had no power of his own. But God’s power was seen acting through him.

So…it’s easy for us to get all worked up over the interpretation of timelines and the theological implications of each verse…but we need to take off our intellectual shoes and realise we’re on holy ground. Only God can bear witness in signs and wonders and miracles. Let’s get this dimension back in church, then we can discuss eschatology.

we need to take off our intellectual shoes and realise we’re on holy ground

The only thing that bothered Moses in those moments wasn’t his own history, or the destination of Israel, but loosening his laces, hopping on one foot as he hurried to remove his other shoe and standing on holy ground.

First things first. And here it is the ministry of the Holy Spirit.

Two Cats, Deux Chats

En franҫais, je m’appelle Bleu, but
In England, I do what only a cat can do
Contort my limbs, forever cleansing
Foreigners to our feline world
Cannot distinguish between the
Beginning and the end of things
I am Blue

By an ancient telepathy,
A domesticated feral spirit
I commune with
An inscrutable snow-white
Handful of pure sophistication
Whose role in life - life in the Ardèche -
Is to stretch, yawn, and wait for food

Though separated, we are one.
If mere sons of Adam
Unburden their hearts in words
We self-carers transmit
Do Not Disturb messages
By extending a claw, yawning
Or…slowly…walking away…

English Blue, purring, curls into
A circle of bliss…in a pram
Whilst the French sophisticat,
Commandeering a plot
Under the green bamboo shoots
Of a café planter, laps up
The attention of the midday Sun

Their eyes, if open, speak
Of a wisdom lost to the ages
Of contentment. Of trust.
Or bringing tokens
To remind the world:
Behind their languid exterior
Lies a classy night hunter

Annoyed by a fence

It’s early, dew lies on the grass
My pores are aptly named
Perspiration from a heightened
Post-run euphoria falls freely,
I’m en route to the welcome
Deluge of a fiery shower
And, across the road,
Shouting, I’d say, stands proud
A new featureless fence

Evoking an unexpected
Rage, a vomit of distaste
I am propelled, it seems
In microseconds
Tunnelling in time
Back to the life of a distant tree
Of distinction
Listening to an intermittent
Chainsaw drawing near

The tree’s soul withdrawing
To its roots and the soil
Resigning its fate
Into the hands
Of a woodsman with
Sweet and salty
Sweat on his brow
We are unlikely twins
He and I

And who lives behind this
Perfectly panelled, knotless
Interlocking  
Guantanamo-orange prison?
Dead cells of a former forest
Standing at eternal attention
Upright, yearning for weather
To crease the horror of its
Nailed-in uniformity

Do I hear a low moan?
A prayer pleading to rot
Into the soil? Another
To shatter in a sudden blast
Of Arctic or Atlantic wind?
Or for seeds to germinate
Climbers, or weeds
To grow up and cover the
Dreadful flat nakedness?

I can think of only
One course of action:
Evisceration
Deep calling to deep
But I am tempted
To catalyse its panels’
Slothful return to nature,
And call down lightning
The Guy Fawkes in me smirks

Camino 3 days on the trail Day 5: Friday 18th July 2025

Monistrol D’Allier to Saugues

The forecast was for very high temperatures over 30oC, so, with a steep climb from Monistrol ahead, I elected to depart by 7am before breakfast, and leave Paul to meet his brother, Mark, and friend Barney when they arrive a couple of hours later.

I enjoyed walking in the cool of the early morning, walking mostly in shade, due to the forest lining the steep hill. Walking on my own was fine; my frequent practice at home, a time to collect my thoughts in a different way than in conversation with Paul.

First major stop was with a yellow house (no other houses are painted; all just stone and mortar so it stands out) at the bottom/of an incline, a few yards beyond a standard Camino WC wooden shed. The loo had a pedal which had to be pressed 5 times to operate a conveyor belt to remove all the waste; clever. No running water required.

A woman was leading a small herd of cows up the road, so I stood to one side to allow them to saunter past. Two dogs and the farmer on a buggy at the rear made sure there were no stragglers.

It’s 10am now, and the heat is pouring down. Sun cream on. I’m glad I started early. WhatsApp texts tell me that Paul, Mark, and Barney have met and are making good progress up the hill.

I meet the same cheerful Franciscan mob again and end up discovering that they’re being transported by minibus everywhere and only walking short sections…hardly in keeping with the hardy pilgrims of yesteryear! I receive another blessing and a gift of a silver St Francis, and they’re gone, dust flying from the tyres of their minibus on the road to Saugues only 2.6km away.

I reach the hill overlooking Saugues with its array of totem poles…and a roadside shack selling food and drinks. I have a coffee, remove shirt to dry off, and set off down the long, steep hill into Saugues. Reaching the bottom, I realise I’ve left my walking pole at the shack. Nothing for it but to slog back up.

Reaching Saugues, which appears to be a metropolis compared to the rural remoteness of the past three days, I’m aware of people bustling around, barely looking at each other, from shop to shop. Why this unfriendliness? Maybe it’s simply a mathematical function of crowd density; you can’t say ‘Bonjour!’ to everyone, but the absence of smiles is noticeable.

I retreat to the church to cool off.

Eventually, I find fellow Camino walkers tucking into coffees and crepes at a café and join them. A married couple and a female friend. An hour or so later, Paul, Mark, and Barney arrive just as the others are leaving; an efficient handover!

Good to be reunited with Paul and to meet his brother and Barney. We swap tales until I saunter off to buy a postcard and to flop down at the bus stop waiting for the Compostel’ Bus us at 4pm.

I move just a few yards away from the shelter to a bench in the shade with a slight breeze coming up from the road below. It’s significantly cooler. A French Camino walker joins me. He’s at a personal crossroads, using his time on the trail to think through what to do for the best for others, including his wife of three years and their daughter. He’s clearly facing a difficult decision. I have my guesses, but there’s no need to know the details; one recognises a mid-life crisis when one sees it so clearly. I mention Richard Rohr’s Falling Upwards.

This is a typical conversation on the Camino. Scratch the surface and there’s often deeper reasons for becoming a pilgrim…we all carry our own load. He only had two days on the Camino and acknowledged that it wasn’t sufficient, but maybe a useful stepping stone – he’d missed his wedding anniversary to be on the walk.

Behind the scenes, Tim J. has been booking a BlaBla car on my behalf. The transfer from the bus to the BlaBla works seamlessly: the bus arrives in Le Puy at 5.15. I walk to the Ibis, go to loo, freshen up a little, change shirt, collect the smaller rucksack left at the hotel, and walk across to find the BlaBla driver, Sabina, in the railway station with her friend Elidi. Sabina is all smiles, and we are driving away shortly after 5.30.

They’ve been on the Camino for ten days, reaching Conques.

Much conversation in spurts. Sabina is coy about her reason for being on the Camino, limiting her answer to ‘Love’ with a smile. Elidi is, like me, accompanying her friend. It turns out that Elidi is off work due to a frozen shoulder. I swap my story.

The conversation turns theological after a while, and at the end of the journey, I ask Sabrina to place her hand on Elidi’s shoulder whilst I say a quick prayer for healing.

Transfer to Tim, who’s arrived to drive me back to his house and to meet Evelyne.

My Camino adventure is over.

Yes, I would like to do more. Maybe as in the film, The Way, to start at the Pyrenees, but the Two Moors walk may be the next walking challenge, across Dartmoor and Exmoor.

Camino 3 days on the trail Day 2: Thursday 17th July 2025

Monbonnet to Monistrol D’Allier

Communal breakfast and away, I think by 9.

What I’m failing to record are the conversations on the road and in the non-Camino hours with Paul and others. They are, of course, wide ranging. Sometimes serious or personal matters, and also trivial, funny, and bizarre. I suspect I’m relaxing into this new way of spending time.

Photos of the beautiful scenery, buildings, philosophical notes in toilets, fellow travellers are recorded.

Leaving the gite we immediately went the wrong way. Doubled back and then missed a turning. We ended up walking along a main road, tempted to do so by red and white bollards. Small red and white signs direct walkers along the Camino. Feeling very silly, realising our error, we walked for a few km on the road before taking a path back to the official Camino path to Monistrol D’Allier.

Next stop was a delightful corner in a village with a boulangerie and a bar. Nice thing about France: you can sit outside with a beer from the bar and eat the food you’ve bought elsewhere. Far better than English etiquette, that prevents such a heinous crime.

Met a happy group of seven or eight young men being led by a Catholic ‘father’ dressed in a long black cassock and a young Franciscan in his brown robes and ropes, who gave us a professional blessing at the chapel high up on a rock at Rochegude.

And on to impressive Monistrol D’Allier. Impressive due to a series of bridges allowing transport and people to cross deep ravines, looking down to a winding river…and a beach dotted with people. Walking across the iron bridge constructed by Eiffel, we arrived at ‘Le Repos du Pelerin’ gite and were shown to our room. Rucksacks are not to be left in rooms, so we unpack the minimum and put rucksacks in an outer hallway, strip down to shorts, and head off to the river for a swim. It’s difficult to convey just how refreshing it is after pouring with sweat mile after mile to immerse oneself in a flowing river and swim. The water is cool; not freezing.

Back to the gite for the evening meal at 7. Six of us who had crossed on the route shared a bottle of wine and endless chatter, sometimes theological – Philip Junior, being a recent convert, challenging the agnosticism of Philip Senior with onlookers making their own contributions. Most comments seem to be about man searching for God. I posed the alternative; that God is searching for us, and it is us that attempt to hide.

As darkness fell, the evening came to a close.

Camino 3 days on the trail Day 1: Wednesday 16th July 2025

Ibis hotel, Le Puy en Valay

4.45 awake. Wrote some notes and ordered Ada a Ladybird memory game on Amazon, which will arrive in Hanham tomorrow. Of course, that seems both normal and mad at the same time; the world continues to shrink.

Breakfast on my own, no one else up so early.

Last minute decision. Yes or no for packing sandals in walking rucksack Yes. Regretting in some ways that I decided not to pack a razor to go for the Crusoe look. After a few days the extra growth is not an attractive feature.

Walk up to the Cathedral for Mass and blessing. Sweat is already making my t-shirt sopping wet; it’s relatively cool, but the climb to the Cathedral is sharp uphill. No one else seems to sweat as much as John S. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I shed my rucksack along with others to the side of the Cathedral and take my seat. There must be 150 fellow Camino pilgrims. Beautiful Catholic Latin singing responses…the higher notes fading away slower than the bass notes in the large space. Many who are there, evidently Catholic, know all the responses. Mostly French, just a few international visitors.

Suitably blessed, I meet Paul and we haul our rucksacks on and head off, stopping almost immediately with a stupendous view from within the Cathedral down and down a cobbled street into Le Puy.

We’ve started; Paul’s dream to do a month on the Camino is underway.

Patterns quickly emerge that carry on over the following days. With those walking at approximately the same pace – and have booked the same Gites – we enter a leapfrogging rhythm as we take breaks and watch people pass, our French being put to the test.

The route to Montbonnet is relentlessly beautiful. Not only the wide views of the Le Puy valley appear as we walk uphill, but the ancient architecture of an increasingly rural France appeals to me. A little like walking in the Welsh hills, but the stone buildings are a variation on the same theme; large, irregular, rounded stones fitted together with mortar. Shutters, of course, adorn every window.

Reaching Le Premiere Etap, our first gite, we walked down a set of steep stone steps onto a large area of decking on which are hundreds of colourful tea pots, plants, different seating areas, a washing line, and a large garden beneath. The owner is rushing around speaking excitedly in French.

I found some games and we sit down outside for a game of Scrabble, quickly joined by another and it turns into a French and English words Scrabble. A crowd gathered, watching.

Our room is basic but fine. Philip the elder and Philip Junior (nicknamed a day later) share the room. Communal loos and shower.

Supper at 7.

I felt a little unmoored by my poor French. Paul seems to be deep in conversation & going well. I needn’t have worried, but at the time it felt awkward.

Camino trip - La France

Monday 14^th July, 2025 

Day 1 of Journey to and from France 

Woke at 3.53, seven minutes before alarm due to sound. Shower, last minute repacking, and away in taxi. Streets abandoned, few seagulls on early morning patrol. 

4.15 Bristol Temple Meads 

Arrive in taxi from Paul and Maria’s having stayed overnight in Westbury on Trym. Watched Sinner overcome his adversary and friend, Alcaraz, then England women cruise past Wales to secure a place in the next round of European Cup. 

Station doors locked. Sit on bench listening to two lying on pavement singing Valerie – quite well. Raspy Jazz voices but after the third disjointed rendition… 

Code in, Tickets out. Loo stop. Then on Paddington train. Not the one I booked but earlier, 4.50, so I have more time to transfer to London Pancras and Eurostar. Am hoping if they check tickets they’ll be kind. 

After a week of 30+ degrees C, the air conditioning on Coach C is perhaps turned up a little too high; my exposed legs and hands are too cold. Hoping for coffee and something to eat. 

Ticket collector took one look at my ticket and said OK. I’m mightily relieved. 

Coffee and chocolate croissant purchased. And perhaps air con has become less fierce. Or I’ve adjusted.  

Swindon. Carriage probably quarter filled. On table seat. Another fella diagonally opposite. Like me wired up, charger on, laptop open. Wonder if he’s writing a journal as well. It’s unlikely we’ll swap notes, interact, or talk. Suits me. 

Theoretically, I could use time to add to the novel, but the scene I’m writing requires greater concentration than I can muster at 5.30. And less wobble. The wobble could lull me into a deep sleep but I’m trying to stay awake - and the slight chill isn’t conducive to sleep. 

Looking out of the window across the fields, it’s reminiscent of 1976, the famously hot summer with standpipes, gras fires, and parched, straw coloured grass. Maybe not as severe this summer, despite maximum temperatures very similar. Summer of ’75 was also very hot but eclipsed by ’76. 

How am I feeling about this trip? Mentally, I’m taking it one step at a time. That’s not intended to be a very weak joke. The truth is that doing so perhaps masks or reduces the nerves I have about the various connections, including catching the earlier train to Paddington. The effect of this is to discard all thoughts about the Camino trail, speaking French, immersing myself in the heat again, worrying about sweating and whether I can physically do the walk and so on, all to a distant future. I am neither excited nor too daunted. Perhaps it’s just too early, but I suspect the under-control-stress of travelling on my own is to blame. 

Made it to St Pancras International. Second flat white and this time a pain au chocolat. 

Sitting next to a café table inhabited by four old-style East-End Londoners, judging by accents. Difficult not to believe they’re all golf club members, family men, and criminals who’ve made their dosh and spending in their retirement on international travel, swapping stories of trips to Viet Nam… 

Have to wait until 8 before I can progress to boarding so I have half an hour to relax and take in my surroundings. Opposite me sit two girls. Could be 16 or 26 difficult to say. Rucksacks. But reason for recording this is that the one on the left is wearing faded blue flared jeans that wouldn’t have looked out of place in 1970s. Respect. 

Paul has appeared as if beamed down from another planet. He travelled by bus, I by train. 

Morally, I am in deficit. I’ve lied three times thus far. Once by being on the wrong train and twice telling two beggars that I had no money. Neither looked as if money was the highest priority, nevertheless I lied in order to push on with the journey. The first was a young man in his twenties, wearing jeans with more holes than threads in places, and the second was a well-dressed Indian-looking individual who claimed he needed a place in a nearby hostel. I gave the one in Bristol one of my bottles of water, which he asked for. Neither was aggressive, the second was excessively polite. I deal with these situations on a green light basis, listening to the Spirit perhaps. I’d like to think so. But those two ‘little fibs’ were unnecessary. 

Good to have 10 mins or so with Paul.  

Cleared tickets and Passport check. Now in departure lounge with maybe a thousand others waiting for boarding instructions a la airports. 

I could write about the hassles of each step through Paris, suffice to say London is one step ahead of Paris in that it has long since ditched the Oyster card in favour of using one touch credit/debit cards. Paris should follow suit. Nearly missed train from Paris Gard de Lyon due to problems with ticket machines. Ne’er mind, a miss is as good as a mile and I’m now in Lyon back in the sultry heat. Feels like a thunderstorm is needed. 

In Starbucks. Cold orange juice. Rest of very expensive baguette and chocolate muffin as company.  

Next link in the chain is a train at 16.54 to Saint Etienne. Last time, in 1982, with NW, we nearly slept through St Etienne and would have ended up in Italy the other side of the Chamonix tunnel. Hopefully not so dramatic this time. 

Think I’ve retreated into weary traveller mode looking forward to air-conditioned hotel, shower, and not much else. Theoretically, I could continue with novel but not until my temp has equilibrated. 

15 minute delay which meant I missed final leg from St Etienne to Le Puy. En route met lovely young family. Arnold, computer engineer Dad, and his wife, Psychiatrist, with two children: Astrid, their lively 3 year old daughter and another daughter not 1. We talked about sport, sadly diminished for Arnold with a knee problem. I shared my miraculous recovery story which led to a brief discussion around ‘religion’. 

Now at St Etienne….close, humid, hot. Paul will arrive in an hour, grab a sandwich and we’,ll do the final leg to Le Puy together. 

Men’s loos closed. Tempted to use Ladies. Think it’s lockable one person event. Or may tough it out and go on the train. Sat outside in the shade but very suspicious characters looking for money or trouble. Cooled down and retreated to café in the station, small flat white (au lait this time). Too hot. 

Paul duly arrived, picked up a quiche. Pouring outside. Hitting very hot pavements. Humid haze but refreshing. Retreated to platform and alighted final train to Le Puy. 

Superb views of sun setting over the Rhine/Rhone?? And into Le Puy over the huge Maddona overlooking the town. So old to arrive. Immediately feel as if the Camino trip has begun. The controlled stress of the journey and connections slips away leaving a sense of joy, relaxation, and adventure. 

After checking in in our respective hotels, met at the cobbled wonder that is le Brasserie, bar, cum restaurant tucked away behind the main thoroughfare. Our cognac and Armagnac interrupted by loud bangs – neither of us had clocked it was 14 Juliette, Revolution, storming of the Bastille Day. Staggeringly good firework display watched freely from a square which was used to guillotine those suspected of who knows what. We all clapped at the end of the display, returned to our drinks, and added two Irish Coffees to round off Day 1. 

Could/it have gone better? Hardly. And even the parts that were tricky e.g. the ticket machines not working, missing connection, the heat at times, none prevented Bristol A From 3am turning into Le Puy B 1am. 22 hours of a memorable trip within a trip. 

Seeing Voices

One day, perhaps soon
Our blinkers, our cataracts
Will be slid away
And we shall see
The glorious normality

The air trembling
With speech unknown
Audible echoes of
Thoughts unheard
Shudders of spirit

Whispers
Taking the shape
Of Niagara, or Angel Falls
A deluge and thunder
Of Shhhh

Or the weeping
Of the Son of Man
Falling like torrents
Tongues of
Inexpressible sorrow

And as the sky dims,
Dark with purples
And a multitude of the
Heavenly host dissolves
Speech into song

The whole of creation
Quivering
With all its words restrung
Into symphonies
We kneel, undone

Jesus the Baptist - Baptism in the Spirit

John the Baptist baptised his followers with water, but he foresaw that the Messiah, Jesus, would baptise with the Spirit.

‘I baptise you with water…but He who is coming will baptise you with the Holy Spirit and fire’ Mt3v11

Still to this day, when the word ‘baptism’ is used, it conjures up images of babies or infants being Christened or of believers being submerged in water either in the sea, a river, or a tank in a church or elsewhere.

How strange! It’s as if John the Baptist’s prophetic announcement has gone unheard! Why is it that when we hear the word ‘baptism’, we don’t automatically think of the baptism in the Spirit, but rather to water baptism?

The New Testament records Jesus’s last instructions to his disciples.

‘Go…and make disciples of all nations, baptising them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit’ Mt28v19

‘John truly baptised with water, but you shall be baptised with the Holy Spirit…(and) receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you and you shall be witnesses to me…to the ends of the earth’ Acts1v4-8

It is easy to continue to practice outward forms or ceremonies like water baptism but miss the point. If we’ve been baptised in water (and maybe have a certificate to prove it!) but haven’t been baptised by Jesus in the Holy Spirit, something is not right.

The testimony of many Christians is that in becoming genuine believers, whoever taught them or preached to them rarely if ever spoke of the third person of the trinity – the Holy Spirit – and as a consequence had never realised that Christianity rests not on the outward ritual of water baptism but a baptism in the Holy Spirit.

Whilst it is true that the Greek word ‘bapteizo’ can mean a sprinkling – like standing in the rain or under a shower, its normal meaning is to be plunged into and under the water. John the Baptist often used the River Jordan. Many believers who are baptised in water are plunged under the water in a ‘baptistry’ or a tank, or outside in a swimming pool, a river, or the sea. What John the Baptist foresaw was that Jesus would baptise with the Holy Spirit. He would take us and plunge us into the third person of the Trinity and to saturate us with the Holy Spirit.

Throughout the book of Acts, there are various descriptions of believers being baptised in the Spirit.

‘Suddenly there was a sound from heaven, like a rushing wind. It filled the whole house where they were sitting, then divided tongues of fire sat on each of them, and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages’ 2v1-4

‘When the apostles heard that the Samaritans had received the word of God…they…prayed for them so that they might receive the Holy Spirit because He had not fallen on them…they had only been baptised in the name of the Lord Jesus’ 8v15

(This is often the case in England and elsewhere when someone has become a genuine believer and been baptised in water, but not in the Holy Spirit)

‘While Peter was still speaking (to Gentiles)…the Holy Spirit fell upon those who heard the word...those who had come with Peter were astonished because gift of the Holy Spirit had been poured out on the Gentiles for they heard them speaking in other languages…then Peter…commanded them to be baptised (in water)’ 10v44-48

This also happens these days. Unbelievers, hearing the gospel receive the Spirit and are later baptised in water.

When Peter reported how the gift of the Spirit had been given to Gentiles to the church in Jerusalem, he said ‘Then I remembered the word of the Lord, ‘John indeed baptised with water, but you shall be baptised with the Holy Spirit’’ 11v16

And, when Peter preached to the crowd on the Day of Pentecost, he brought baptism in water and baptism in the Spirit together.

‘Then Peter said to them (the crowd that had gathered) ‘Repent, and let every one of you be baptised in the name of Jesus…and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit’’ Acts 2v38

It’s important to note that each of these incidents recorded in Scripture, in Acts, is different. Divided flames were sitting on the believers on the day of Pentecost, but not in Samaria, for example. Some teach that the primary evidence of the baptism of the Spirit is ‘speaking in tongues’, ie, other languages. It is not surprising; all of the incidents recorded in Acts of the baptism in the Spirit involve speaking in tongues. The argument against that comes from 1Cor 12v30, the rhetorical question that asks, ‘do all speak in tongues?’ The answer being No.

Am I thirsty?

The real question with spiritual matters is not to become neutralised by debating fine doctrinal points, but to ask am I thirsty? Do we long for Jesus to baptise us in the Spirit? Or are we content to plough on within the confines of our rationality, our mental appreciation of doctrines of salvation? Neither of these is bad at all, but in comparison, they are like studying a car manual rather than turning the ignition on, firing up the engine, and driving.

All churches should be packed with the type of people that John the Baptist foresaw, a community of individuals who have been baptised in the Spirit, are walking in the Spirit, and the Spirit is leading.

Jesus also envisaged the same.

‘If anyone is thirsty, let him come to me and drink. He who believes in Me as the scripture says, out of his heart shall flow rivers of living water’ By this he was speaking of the Holy Spirit…the Holy Spirit had not yet been given because Jesus had not yet been glorified’ John 7 v 37-39

To finish, it should strike as odd that when we speak of baptism, our thoughts imagine we’re speaking of water, not the Holy Spirit.

The New Testament is clear. If someone has repented (changed their thinking about Jesus and the resurrection), they should be baptised in water and receive the Holy Spirit. In other words, a water baptism and a Holy Spirit baptism. (see above, Acts 2v38)

Which order these three events are experienced seems to matter less to God than it does to us. In Acts, the examples given above illustrate the point well enough…especially when the Holy Spirit fell on the Gentiles. They were baptised in the Spirit, then baptised in water, and repented and believed somewhere in the mix.

Podcasts, BBC Sounds, Red Hand Files…out walking or jogging No1.The Robcast with Bonnie Tyler and her book ‘The Spark of My Womb’

The podcasts in no particular order:

The Robcast with Rob Bell – interviews or monologues on the human condition
Inspired with Simon Guillebaud – interviews with Christians with stories to tell
How to Fail with Elizabeth Day – interviews with celebrities, 3 failures and their responses
The Life Scientific with Jim Al-Khalili - interviews with leading scientists
(DiD) Desert Island Discs (BBC Sounds/R4)
(FOOC) From Our Own Correspondent with Kate Adie
More or Less (BBC Sounds, R4) with Tim Harford examining statistics in the news
Curious Cases (BBC Sounds, R4) with Hannah Fry and Dara O’Briain – Science questions
Dead Ringers (BBC Sounds, R4) – comedy
The Rest is Politics with Rory Stewart and Alastair Campbell
Frank Skinner’s Poetry Podcast – a poet each week
Unlocking the Bible – David Pawson
In Our Time (BBC Sounds, R4) with Melvyn Bragg

Red Hand Files – Nick Cave with a weekly letter/email answering questions from fans

Sunday 6th July

Walk 4.65K : Strawberry Line from Winscombe N to gate into fields, across road to Banwell, and into Thatcher’s Cider orchards, to Barton Lane and back through fields, dodging cows.

Podcast: The Robcast, Rob Bell’s lively interview with Bonnie Lewis, author of The Spark of My Womb under the name B. Coil.

For those not familiar with Rob Bell, he was a pastor of Mars Hill Church, Michigan, a mega-church, until 2012 when he left to pursue a non-evangelical-friendly path of spirituality. Why, then, you might well ask, are you, Mr Stevens, listening to The Robcast?

It’s true that if I had a 1:1 with Mr Bell, I would want to explore his reasons for abandoning his evangelical beliefs. And what he now believes about Jesus Christ.

And it’s also true that over the past few years, when I have listened to The Robcast, I think it would be accurate to say he hasn’t interviewed an evangelical Christian. Perhaps he should?

So, where’s the doorway into listening to The Robcast? In the same way that I might have tuned into Michael Parkinson, or, to be more up to date, Elizabeth Day (see above), or any interviewer who has that knack of attracting interesting individuals who can articulate their experience of life.

His interview with Bonnie Tyler was a cracker

His interview with Bonnie Tyler was a cracker. Most of it orbited around her new book The Spark of My Womb. If I’ve gleaned anything from the interview, the book is a fictional pastiche that is semi-autobiographical and serves as a vehicle for Bonnie to tell her readers what it’s been like to be Bonnie Tyler, and a woman. Be prepared for a very non-evangelical perspective…we’re probably talking New Age ++

Not only is Bell a skilled interviewer, but the reason I listen to his monologues and interviews is that he is attempting to communicate what it’s like to be a human being in the context of today’s world, and his world in the United States – and does it well, with characteristic cheerfulness, enthusiasm, and occasional tears.

Of course, I don’t agree with every statement, but that’s not the point. In previous articles, I’ve lumped Bell, McClaren, and Richard Rohr in the same boat. I disagree with many of their viewpoints, but they are better than many at talking about the human condition.

The crunch question: will I read The Spark of My Womb? It’s hardly a blokey title.

If I do, I shall report back.

In the meantime, maybe listen to a few Robcasts and see what you think.

The Problem with Awe

ACW More Than Writers Blogpost 7th July 2025

The Problem with Awe

It’s a strange expression, if you slow to a stop and think through the words, ‘took my breath away’ it seems to have two meanings; something utterly shocking or beautiful that causes you to gasp – to breathe in, or to suddenly exhale.

 Does anyone travel from birth to death without having a few such moments? I’ve had a few.

 One was maybe six or seven years ago: a piece of music on Radio 4 was so beautiful I had to stop the car, it wasn’t safe to continue driving through a blur of tears.

 Or a beautiful woman I had the privilege of meeting and knowing. My socks were blown clean away.

 And two paintings. One, as far as I know, is still in the Bristol Museum, and the other (a relatively inexpensive print) hangs in my house. Both made me stand and stare.

 Then there’s mist in the hollows on an autumnal morning, a sunset across the ocean, the crash of a wave on shingle beach, or the particular blue of a cold January sky…I could go on.

 All good, but then there’s a sinister side of awe. In writing.

 When, as a writer, you encounter writing that is nigh on perfect and seems to occupy some impenetrable place reserved for an unapproachable elite. As a consumer, you are transfixed and carried along in a beam of satisfaction and joy of reading; your imagination, long since sent soaring with emotion and movement.

 But as a writer? As a writer, one can either be inspired or discouraged.

 One recent example. I enjoy reading Nick Cave’s The Red Hand Files, a weekly letter replying to a few questions posed to him by adoring fans. But the quality of Nick Cave’s replies, his ability to interweave ideas, meditations, poetic imagery, humour, and plain good advice and common sense, is…depending on the mood I’m in…either dispiriting or uplifting.

 Another author I may have mentioned before that has that seemingly casual inability to write a single sentence that is not worth rereading…no, not Shakespeare, Dostoyevski, or Steinbeck…but Ian Rankin. No fillers, no unnecessary descriptive interludes, no fat, it’s pared to the bone and yet entirely nourishing. How does he do it?

 Here’s a sentence that I particularly liked, from this week’s Red Hand Files, where Nick Cave is relaying to a fan something of the agony he goes through in writing the first two lines of a song, starting with ‘the unpredictable arrival of those first two lines’:

 ‘Within those few words lies the ‘beautiful idea’ and the inception of that idea is fundamentally unstable, unreliable, and deeply mysterious’

 None of us can ever write entirely in the style or ‘like’ another. But let us learn. Let us be open. Let us be influenced, inspired, and aspire to write well, to improve, and yet be content, and continue to convert those ‘beautiful ideas’ into poetry and prose, novels and blog posts.

 St Paul said ‘I have learned to be content. I know how to be based, and I know how to abound…I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.’

 So far, I’ve read this blog post through once or twice, tweaked this verb, that sentence, and cut and pasted a paragraph…I’m almost content to leave it and push on to August. Almost.

Heavy with mist

In the garden
In the cool of the day
The Lord God came
Looking for those who
Struggled to hide

Untruths from the heat
Of the day, exposed
In the twilight, man:
Born in the morning
Undesigned for the night

That long imminent night
Of flaming swords
Of banishment. An exile
Kneading its strange magic:
A longing to return

In King’s Wood
In the cool of after-dawn
Boots on the hillside, up
To the flaking plaster
Triangulation point

I climbed and gazed East
Into the face of the sun
Or would have
But the air was heavy
Blurred with humidity

Birdsong, muffled in
A wall of water hanging
Just above the ground
Clinging to the sky
Saturating the world

Obscuring the sunrise
Until the heavy mist
Burned clear
And I,
With eyes open, saw

What was always there
The grass beneath my feet
A lone mushroom
A startled rabbit
A languid cow

And disinterested sheep
Mowing the hillside
Sung to by skylarks
And ancient warblers.
For a moment

I was no longer here
But home
In the farm tracks
And dry-stone walls
Of Eden

The Final Eleven O’Clock: Coffee Beans & A Phonecall Monday 30th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Kitchen

2. Grinding coffee beans and finishing conv. with daughter No 1. Mutual feedback on matters retreating to housewarming

3. Thinking. Multilevel, multi subject matters…mentally multitasking: spin off matters from daut No3’s text, real-time issues raised by No1…also the excellent content of some posts on a writing blogsite I write for once a month (More than Writers) and my replies. Also mundane thoughts regarding grinding coffee beans. One bean escaped the spoon three times and needed to be hunted down and dropped beneath the spinning blades.

Feelings. Even on this final post, I’m finding it difficult to figure out what I’m feeling as opposed to what I’m thinking and doing. In conversation with No1 I did speak about my sense of social awkwardness in some moments over the past party-oriented 48 hours: a couple of friends who spent quite a bit of time ranting about subjects – including conspiracy theories - no one had asked them to comment on…and wondering how many times I have done the same thing…and wondering what that is all about? A surplus of energy? A need to speak about pet subjects? Anger? The need to be an expert? Insecurity? Or a conduit of news and views others need to hear? Where’s there a psychologist when you need one?

But how/what I was I feeling at 11 o’clock? Relatively pacific. Aware of tidal patterns and surface ripples as an analogy of friendships – each has its own rhythm.

So, I apologise for ending The Eleven O’Clock with a deliberately obscure comment about tides and ripples, but some things are best left unsaid.

What better than to close with the Wisdom of Solomon:

There’s

A right time for birth and another for death,
A right time to plant and another to reap,
A right time to kill and another to heal,
A right time to destroy and another to construct,
A right time to cry and another to laugh,
A right time to lament and another to cheer,
A right time to make love and another to abstain,
A right time to embrace and another to part,
A right time to search and another to count your losses,
A right time to hold on and another to let go,
A right time to rip out and another to mend,
A right time to shut up (!) and another to speak up,
A right time to love and another to hate,
A right time to wage war and another to make peace.

The Eleven O’Clock: Full English and Flat Whites? Sunday 29th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. The Pantry, coffee shop, Winscombe

2. Eating a cooked breakfast – not a Full English but the next size down. Convivial chat with five other late-to-rise friends after last night’s housewarming

3. Thinking: thoughts still assembling after a broken night’s sleep on a karrimat and in a sleeping bag on my back lawn watching the stars. Idyllic? No, not quite. To bed at 1am. Awake with a bad back and raging hayfever at 3am. Exercises, pee, hayfever dose, and approx. two further hours of sleep, then up at 6 with two others, cups of tea, and more chat. So…no settled thoughts, more a stream of ever-changing thoughts in conversations.

Feeling: surprisingly awake, and v. happy & relieved that the housewarming went well with friends & family. That the sun shone was a blessing.

The Eleven O’Clock: Hoovering and a Murder of Crows Saturday 28th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Behind a vacuum cleaner

2. Pushing, pulling a vacuum around the upstairs and downstairs & listening a bit earlier to Curious Cases R4 making the case that Corvids (Crows, Rooks, Ravens, and Jackdaws) are more intelligent than children.

3. Thinking – my mind is split between working my way through umpteen chores to get the house ready for a gathering later - and crows. Also, a faint thought routine on repeat re: Jackdaws

Feeling – I’m doing ‘subordination of feelings to planning mode’, but it’s not entirely successful. I catch myself worrying mildly over pre-party stuff – will X arrive, will X, who won’t know anyone apart from me, be OK, will P and Q talk over the past amicably (!), how many bodies will require a bed for the night, will there be enough food? What if there’s far too much food? You get the picture. Fretting over all the things over which I have no or limited control…and, yes, I know, control is largely an illusion anyway, and it’s often the apparent randomness of everything where unexpected joy stems from. A verse from Proverbs comes to mind ‘lean not on your understanding but in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths’. This and similar verses have somehow become more crackly with life than ever – you know that anticipation in the air just before a thunderstorm.

Ps – note on Jackdaws. Forgive me if I’ve mentioned this before. From childhood, Jackdaws and swifts have been my favourite birds. Swifts just take it from swallows in the same way as Spitfires are just ahead of Hurricanes. And Jackdaws have had a place reserved for them for decades. And, bless my soul, if having rarely seen Jackdaws in all those intervening years, if the birds that congregate on my chimney and peck around on the roof tiles to my right, are not they! If you’re looking for proof of divinity, I doubt if this would tip you over the edge, but for me, it’s a sign of the love of God for this amateur believer.

The Eleven O’Clock: Spotify Playlist Friday 27th June, 2025

Each day for the remainder of June, I’ll post The Eleven O’Clock and aim to answer the following three questions in short sentences and/or very short paragraphs.

1. Where am I?

2. What am I doing?

3. What am I thinking about and feeling?

Of course, I would welcome any comments, humorous, poignant, serious, or otherwise.

1. Desk, landing

2. Making a playlist on Spotify

3. Thinking: The idea of a playlist originated from a chance discovery of a short series of interviews with well-known TV and radio presenters selecting their favourite classical pieces, some of which were borrowed for the playlist. I suppose my thinking was split between my unfamiliarity with Spotify and feeling immersed, particularly, in some moving choral and other pieces, many of which I hadn’t heard before.

Feeling: as already stated a feeling of being immersed and my inner world being stretched, expanded, stilled, and stirred. Long chords; a blend of bass, tenor, alto, and soprano voices, puncturing any layabout defences. Resistance, as they say, is futile. Not because it’s impossible; futility is doing or not doing something that leads nowhere - the off button is not far away - but music that pours out of one soul is designed to crash past all our No Entry signs; it will not obey and must not. It is we who must yield, trust, and be taken to wherever we have to go.

Try Barber: Agnus Dei, Winchester Cathedral Choir if you dare