Riffing in Writing

As I am waking up on Sunday morning, in the muddle of thoughts about the day, one thought stands out. ‘Go for a walk in the lower part of the village with J’. I have experienced thoughts like these before. They tend to be specific. There is a certain clarity about them that I think is God. When I have listened in the past, good things have happened. But they are easy to let drift, especially when they don’t fit with plans for the day. J sits up on his side of the bed. I know he is going to go downstairs to get ready for church. I could go for a walk by myself. I could stay home and cook Sunday lunch..…Before I can think myself out of it, I say ‘do you want to go for a walk in the lower village this morning?’. I can sense his mental adjustment - he is tangibly tackling this potential change of plan - cogs are clicking into different positions. ‘Yes, let’s’, he says. Down at the crossroads we are both enjoying the walk - we take the longer route. We cross the field with the pylons and wa...

 What if I lie down in a green pasture? N ot a sward of tended grass, but a scruffy field of clover and wildflowers, past its early summer glory. I am on my own. Only me and the distant sounds of traffic and occasional aeroplanes, and the pylon with the kite string cables anchoring it to earth.  I turn away from the metal and wires, so all I can see is wide field rimmed by forest. I am strangely reluctant to sit down. I will get wet. Some dog walker might see me. When I do, cross legged like a child, I feel at home. This is a place I belong. I want to lie down. Again it takes an effort of will to hook up my hood and lay back on the earth. An action out of the ordinary does not come easily. The ground is hard under my head, so solid beneath my back. I find I belong here, breathing in smells of crushed grass and soil. A wind begins on the other side of the field; the sound of leaves is rushing, flickering, like a river. It moves across to the forest behind me. I am surrounded by...