She used to sit outside under the oak tree, her head resting back against the trunk, hands cushioned behind, eyes tilted heavenward, searching for butterflies. Of course this only happened during spring, and it was most convenient to do it after Saturday morning breakfast, when the sun was still warm. Living out in the open, next to the river, there was always a good chance of seeing at least one or two, either the Painted Lady, or the Buckeye, or if she was lucky, the Ulysses. She didn’t know the scientific names back then, they had real names, like Tinkerbell, Misty and Sir Geoffrey. Sometimes they wouldn’t show up and she’d be content to move off under the tree and go play inside the house.

But childlike wonder soon turns into a hobbie, or an academic pursuit of some kind. Armed with books and internet searches it was not enough just to wait and watch, it had to be categorised. She used to draw them, Sir Geoffrey playing with Tinkerbell. Of course they never actually appeared together, but in her young mind they did, and they were going to get married too one day. Now beauty was under the magnifying glass, or at least at this stage, studied in books and cropped out of digital photos. The biological motives for the circles on the wings obscured the childhood fantasy that they were just there to make the sky a prettier place. Like the blue spring sky needed a dash of color to go along with the smell of spring blossoms.

Soon after that Sir Geoffrey was under a magnifying glass, spread out, pins piercing the wings so that the microscope could peer into the patterns. Funny, the rising suns on the wings didn’t have the same contrast against the harsh bulb as it did on the blue sky. They also no longer winked at her when the wings beat, they were now motionless, of course. It may seem cruel, she reasoned to her herself, but it’s better than those who catch butterflies to keep them in a jar. Surely that’s worse? At least like this she can frame Sir Geoffrey, for anyone to see, conveniently, whenever they felt the need. She had captured beauty you see, and now that it was her possession she could gaze on it when she wanted, she could display it’s beauty to the world without having to get them to sit under a tree for an hour first. Surely?

But as with most hobbies they eventually fade away, and along with it the color from Geoffrey’s wings as he lay crucified in his glass frame, dusty now, hanging above the stairs, next to the overexposed photo of the beach. You see beauty captured is lost, it can only be maintained in freedom. The only way she could continue to enjoy the beauty of butterflies was to create a garden for them to live in, a place they could beat their wings against a blue sky. Beauty is no-one’s possession, for if possessed it cannot be free, and if not free to beat it’s wings against a blue sky then it’s beauty disappears, along with the sky.

She learnt this the hard way, when she was old enough to be noticed, to be beautiful, to be pursued with the purpose of being caught and displayed. And the beauty faded, and along with it the beauty of the space she occupied. Perhaps he should have played with butterflies, and realised that beauty is no man’s possession, and that perhaps he should rather have created a garden for her to live in, safe, with sun, and shade and blossoms where need be. Beauty does not need to be possessed, but rather set free to be enjoyed, in a safe, warm place. A place where sir Geoffrey and Tinkerbell may be married someday.

I’m posting the next article at the great risk of being misunderstood, or worse, being read into. It’s really a philosophical piece, about beauty and it’s destruction through deconstruction and the inherent desire for possession of it. It’s hard to put into words, so it’s best explained through a story. That’s all it is, really.

So I won’t be taking comments on the next post. Just read it and enjoy, or not. If you get what I’m trying to say that’s awesome, if not, hopefully it’s still entertaining…

The seasons are changing. Well at least they’re supposed to be. I always look forward to the moment when I take the winter duvet out the cupboard and put it on the bed. This year I got tired of waiting and put it on, despite the fact that it wasn’t  quite cold enough yet. The fluffy heaviness will make up for a sweaty sleep or two.

Most people go into hibernation mode in winter, hiding indoors, peeking out their heads only to see if it’s spring yet. Then when the summer finally comes it seems happiness increases with the temperature, and everyone gets back to living again.

You would think that after so many years of living on this planet, that we would have realised the inevitability of seasons, and got used to living each of them with an equally satisfied disposition. If you want to avoid the change of season the only thing you can really do is fly around the world while it spins, or plant yourself at one of it’s poles. But it’s really cold there so that wouldn’t work anyway.

Life spins on the same axis, it’s inevitable. Periods of summer sun and happiness, followed by the falling apart of the leaves, and the slow descent of the sun into increased darkness. It’s not pretty seeing the earth go into hibernation, hold it’s breath and tuck it’s head under its wings, immobilised, waiting to tilt toward the sun again. It’s not pretty seeing lives descend into gloomy depression, the season where the soul buries it’s head underneath layers of dead winter leaves.

You would think that after so many years of living on this planet, that we would have become accustomed to the fact that the seasons of life are constantly changing, and that summer will inevitably follow winter. That times may be tough, but it is just for a season, spring will come around again. And equally so that when life is sunny we should enjoy it while it lasts, for the leaves will inevitably fall, and it will all start over again.

If we could only become accustomed to these rhythms of life, learning to be content in each season. If only. It sounds impossible really. Really?

“I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me” (Phil 4:11b-13).

‘The Drug Line’ is a short story about a group of people forced to share their time together in a hospital queue. The bare hospital walls provide the setting for a display of some of the complex facets of love. Read Chapter 4 here.

This time Grant arrives early. He wants to make sure he gets a seat up front, next to Harry. He only has to wait a few minutes before he hears the door squeak open, and sees a ragged outline silhouette out of the sunshine. It has an almost angelic appearance, complete with fake halo created by the back-lit sun, and sparkles of light formed by the dusty sunbeam. Maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, the previous day’s business projecting false holiness on the rumpled old man.

He has to make sure: “Harry, are you certain you want to go through with this? One last chance to change your mind?”. Harry hasn’t even had a chance to take his seat. He sits down as a king would on his throne, a newness of confidence exuding from the frail figure. He slowly takes off his glasses, eyes glinting, radiance no longer due to any lighting effects. His hands fold and he takes a breath.

“I think I’ve lived through it all, every significant human experience, every meaningful phase of life. I’ve experienced the freedom of being a child, the insecurity of being a teen, the steadfastness and resolute intention of a young adult. My heart has squirmed in puppy love, swollen in obsession, and been impregnated and solidified in committed lifelong love. I’ve had the dignity of causality, creating and forming family, along with the satisfaction of providing for that economy. My mind and heart and soul have been torn through the tension of joy and pain that is inevitable in this journey. And yet they’ve always been healed again, with a deeper sense of peace that comes through rebuilding on stronger foundations. I think we all get to experience this, at least we should. You should. Matt should.”

Grant takes a brown envelope out of his pocket and hands it to Harry. “Here’s your copy then. It’s been done”. The ground shudders as the hatch rolls up. Grant gestures to Harry to go ahead of him: “One last time”. The words pierce Harry’s side as he realises the magnitude of what he is doing. As emotions beg to flow he stands up and walks to the hatch, pulling on the glasses. Mary slides him the container, nervously glancing up she senses a new kind of darkness in the room. Not the gloomy type that followed Matt the last few days, but one that hides hope behind it, peeking out like stray rays of sun behind a curtain.

As he turns to leave, he hesitates, and turns back toward Grant. He meets him halfway to the hatch and presses the container into his hand: “To remind you, to live life fully. And to look after those two kids”. At this he smiles, nods toward Mel and asks Grant: “Tell her to give Matt a call. He could use some company, I’m sure she’d love to shift her attention from old folks like to me to young guys with a new lease on life”.

Grant watches as Harry walks out of the room one last time. He’s still stranded halfway to the hatch, motionless, pill container propped up in his open hand. Sister Mary watches silently from the one side, Mel the other. He closes his hand as Mel approaches him, but she’s already realised what’s happened. Her hands are covering her mouth, only one word sneaking through: “Why?”

Grant puts the container in his suit pocket, bringing out the other brown envelope at the same time. “Perhaps you should be the one to give this to Matt. It’s Harry’s will. He changed it yesterday, leaving everything to Matt. In a few days it will come into effect, when Harry’s life slips away”. He absent-mindedly pats his pocket, the one which contains the unmistakable shape of a decision to exchange one life for another.

Mel crawls into a hug with Grant as he stares out of the window. Behind them Sister Mary leans and rests her chin on her hands. The sound of the door handle causes them all to turn, experiencing a new sunrise in the room as the light floods in. A thin shape bends through the door and walks slowly to the chairs. He’s tattoo laden, with a shy smile on his face. He’s Ed, and he’s new to the drug line…

READ Lk 2:15-21

I remember reading once that the shepherds were the first preachers of the gospel, for they “…made known the saying that had been told them concerning this child“. These were pretty simple guys, and they had a pretty simple message to tell:

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” (KJV)

It’s so elegant: The complex nature of the glory of God reigning in the highest of places, greater than all spiritualities and powers, conqueror over all the earth through the child Jesus, and subsequent peace on earth among men and between man and God.

It seems they said so little, but really they spoke infinite amounts. That little pill of a message can bring an eternity of relief…