But the last book we read together (and which after 13 years is the first one I haven't finished - not for negative reasons but because I want to give it the time it deserves) is "The Missing Peace" by Chris Whittington, which is an introduction to contemplative practice.
During the discussion I mentioned the fact that, as I have said on this blog before, I have a difficulty in "switching off" which means that contemplative prayer is a genuine challenge, and I do not even find swimming as restful an experience as others do.
That was certainly the case when I was on holiday after Easter last year when I literally began writing this poem in the pool and on the beach (in controversion of all that I was advocating in an earlier poem "Bobbing" which you can read by searching this site, or buying my new book of poems "Hedge Songs."
My mind has gotten no less busy in the ensuing year for various reasons, and after another disturbed night's sleep I finally finished this by changing a few words in one line.
But whilst this has grown out of my personal circumstances, experiences and personality quirks, it slso reflects the experiences of many people that I talk to who feel that because of age, or their work environment or changes in society they feel themselves being discounted, disregarded and discarded.
Counting down the distance,
calculating percentages
and fractions as distractions
from the relentless soundtrack
in my head; the lengths I go to,
avoiding fellow swimmers,
and unwanted mental stowaways,
preventing me being present.
Counting off the page numbers,
and reviewing the most mundane
of books devoured, filling my mind
with fiction and facts to escape
the real stories overwhelming me;
A growing global dystopia and
developing narratives from which
I feel deliberately, gradually deleted.
Counting the encroaching waves,
eroding the shore beneath my feet,
as unbiddable as the trajectory
of my self-pitying circumstance.
So I return to re-ordering bookshelves
giving me the illusion of control,
before the library of my life begins
to be checked out, from top to toe.
Counting off the years of service,
of those who sat here before me,
and those they served and worked with;
The faithful witnesses watching;
Seeing all that was and is looming.
Can we continue to honour their legacy
With a worldview that only counts money,
That discounts costs, and devalues values.
Counting the seconds breathing slowly in and out.
Counting the minutes to the next deadline.
Counting the hours to justify my existence.
Counting the days until the curtain falls.
Counting the weeks until the exit door.
Counting the months left on the mortgage.
Counting the years in the rear-view mirror.
And feeling that you no longer count.
Selah
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