Misty Mornings

And so a gentle, enfolding mist clasps the gentle hills and lush valleys of the Heart of England.

In a mist, the outlines of things soften and blur, edges become frayed. And then we read Morning Prayer and I think to myself – that’s not very blurry at all, is it? The torture and martyrdom of Jewish young men in Maccabbees, and Jesus telling us that the World will hate us, if we belong to him.

And so a sudden sharpness – like a hi-viz-clad cyclist, picked out in a headlight, reveals itself to us. Have we blurred the edges too much? Where does being in the world lead us to becoming also of it? When should we not follow this world – and where should we be leading it?

Maybe I’ll forget these musings for now – instead with getting on with making chutney with the bounty of tomatoes and cooking apples with which I’m blessed. It may not be terribly right – but at least I know it’s not wrong.

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