It is beautiful on my morning walk at the moment. The rain and intermittent hot sunshine has made for breath-taking lemon and lime green brush strokes of wheat, ink tipped with a darker green. Green wheat billowing in a Mexican wave of silence, from one border to the next. The hedgerow that borders the field, is five feet deep of calico coloured feathers, sensuous soft grassy seed heads, which co-habit perfectly with the intense poppy reds and tall pin-striped purple flower stems, all laced with the most delicate white broderie anglaise flowers. Wildflower borders really don’t get much prettier than this.
There are giant purple headed thistles, tightly contained and irresistibly bulbous before they irrepressibly burst, eruption exploding into glory. Plants with real architectural presence and staggering beauty. And way beyond the billowing lime wheat, is the prettiest pastel slip of a field, all purple something, straight out of a Hockney painting, backed by dark green trees, against the bluest of coastal skies. God the artist, man the artist, me the artist, all dancing interdependent before creation, unconsciously in relationship. Making, reaping, breathing, sewing, seeing whatever of it, that we as individuals are gifted to see.
I walk physically in solitude, and I walk mentally, and I drift consciously, and I drift sub consciously. And I realise that all the miles physically covered have just been a conversation of my higher self and Him. Observing, sharing, penetrating each other. A Oneness, where He knows everything about me, and I surrender to Him in totality.
I became aware of this just yesterday, when I was away, walking, being elsewhere . . . and suddenly the intense sweetness of the wild honeysuckle, threaded throughout the wooded trees, brought me back to the surface of myself. His presence so powerful in the sweetest strongest scent of wild flowers. In abundance for a split second the scent penetrated my mouth and became a flavour, and I couldn’t help but taste the pungent intoxicating honey, Him inside of me, touching and arousing my senses, awakening me to Him. Him in all things.
If He is in all things, that then got me really thinking. What about the stench of the bog, or the earthy wet soil, or the pungency of the beautiful forest trail, leading for a deathly few minutes past the sewage works, where does that sit within me. If He is in all things like suffering, I can sense Him in the courage or the comfort or the despair. But if He is in all things, what about Him in the rapist, or Him in the torture chamber, or Him in the horrific act of female genital mutilation? What about Him in weapons and bombs and Mass destruction, and Him in murder? Where is He in cruelness, is He there in the act of cruelty?
Where is He in the husband that has a vasectomy against his wifes wishes? Where is He in the lifeless sex of vasectomy? Where is He in the uncreative death of love? Is He there still, where man has murdered and crucified the life-giving breath of the Holy Spirit so intimately when two bodies once became one? I think there He is not. How can He be in ‘vasectomy the death of God’? Because once I could feel His presence and then I couldn’t.
But He is here in the aftermath. He is here in the stilling left beyond. He is here in the sweetnesses of life. He is here in the colours and the kindness and the hope that lies in the wake of the aftermath. He is here in everything that is of Love and Truth. He is here in the crosses and the roads ahead. And in the beauty of all things born of Love and Truth He is here.
It is here He steals me from all hurting, and all disappointment, and all dispair. It is here He undresses me, and makes me naked. It is here He bathes me with Golden hues and Heavenly scents, and showers me with radiant Love. Where all I need is nature and Grace and His belovedness, and His constant intercession. It is here where God bestows True Authentic Love, Love bathed and soothed and wrapped in His blessings. Love that takes me to where I was supposed to be all along, in him in Him in me.