Quiet Time

It’s Friday morning. 7am. Today I sit on the western side of the Prayer Room so I can watch the sun. Laden with orange lanterns she picks her way up through the palm fronds into free space above the horizon. The air was cool this morning. A little zephyr blew, and the palm fronds danced a merry little dance as it went by. They were long fingers whispering a familiar tune on an unseen keyboard.

A host of birds surround me, calling to each other. Probably about wind speeds, mass/velocity ratios and other mundane things, but an organic symphony nonetheless. The new light on the cane mats underfoot changes their colour. From a shadowy beige, on to gold through the spilled orange lantern-light.

I can hear the steady breathing of the two guys that flank me. One a christian from Kenya – I think of his story. The other a lanky, good humoured fellow from Tibet. A Buddhist. I can hear the chant of a group of hindus at their morning prayer. A call and response. Harmony there also.

My mind turns to my God. What is it about ritual that draws us – binds us – so strongly? Our slave-masters ‘achievement’ and ‘attainment’ drive us on a death march. A far too distant goal. Most slump down on the side of the road. Beaten. There is something beautiful about silence.

I think about my friend Terry now. Walking in the forest each morning with his dog Daisy. And he plays jazz drums. Surely both these things must be addressed by any journey into spirituality. And eating. And gardening. And your favourite chair. And being in the shower. And laughing with your children. God has to be there. In all those bits. The ‘un’ bits. Otherwise, I don’t want him.

The charge of irrelevance hangs in the still air like smoke-shot after cannon fire. I guess that’s why I’m sitting here. In a multi-faith prayer room. In India. With a Russian, a Taiwanese, Vietnamese, Aussie, an Indian. A Kenyan, Tibetan and Korean.

And as I’ve sat here, the sun has trudged her way up the sky. The orange lanterns are lost. Or bought. By people like me who rise to meet her. Shadows shorten. The light hardens. Day noises now jostle and elbow their way into my ears. My stomach grumbles. It’s 8am. Breakfast time. I smile. Jesus is already in the dining room serving up my scrambled eggs and toast.

It’s no longer Quiet Time. But it’s still spiritual.