The first day, I went back, as soon as I entered the church, a lady brought her grandchild in and showed her around the church. It was sweet to hear the lady explain about the church with this simplicity of speaking to a child. “That is Jesus and Mary in the window”. It felt as perfect a sermon as I ever remember hearing. I could have been disappointed that the magical silence of the previous day was not recreated, but this was a different type of newness. Also, when I think of the Christ, it is hard not to forget his message – “Be like a child to enter the Kingdom of Heaven”. The innocence of a child can be a good counterpoint to the seriousness of adults.

Expectation is always a problem in spirituality. If the glass is full with expectation, those new experiences can’t come. You can never know what comes next. If you can avoid expectation, you keep the glass empty, ready to be filled.

The second day I tried again, three minutes after entering, a man who had been smoking cannabis outside came into ask if there were any facilities he could use.

I guess, no mystical experience today.

It reminds me of a Zen proverb – “Enlightenment, then sweep the floor”. Or as Sri Chinmoy might say, you can eat the tastiest food everyday! [1]

***
New writing inspiration

The other thing is whilst meditating in the church I felt a new writing inspiration; it felt like a different writing voice – a rather unexpected discovery. That evening I felt compelled to write on paper (for the first time in years); it flowed very easily and naturally. Encouraged by this I became inspired to buy a new pen and paper. But, recreating this writing inspiration has been much more difficult than just buying a fancy pen. The same spontaneous inspiration has not re-visited, instead I have been slipping into bad poetry, trying to force something new – caught between two worlds and two writing voices – not entirely sure which track to take. In the end it was a relief to go back to writing on the problems of the UK economy – slipping into that metronomic, monotonous style of an economist, that I could almost manage in my sleep.
Still it is definitely an interesting experience, and as a friend said, you may get the odd ‘easy’ experience, but then you have to work hard to keep the inspiration coming. You can’t always expect a spontaneous flow. It is an analogy for meditation; sometimes, you have a good meditation with seeming little effort, but that good meditation may require many days of patient effort, without any obvious results at all.

As an aspiring writer you need to find a ‘voice’ that is genuine and authentic – you can’t try to be someone else that you are not. But, equally, you can’t expect to get better without some discipline and hard work.

This below is a piece of writing I tried, but don’t really like. There are a few good lines,  but it would require endless revision to make more palatable. I wouldn’t post in a publication where there are more than seven readers. But, still I’m going to post it here for personal interest. Hopefully, in ten years time I will look back and be embarrassed at the standard of my own writing.

The bird of inspiration

I like to write. Mostly it feels like my effort, but under my control – rational, logical – the economist in full flow. But I admire the poets – effortlessly subtle, nuanced glimpses of the Beyond. I can grow tired of a reasoned clarity, and yearn for a new freedom of expression.

This new bird of inspiration can strike at unexpected times – no logic to her grace, no will can summon her down. Sitting at my shrine, I wait to be swept away. But the body falls asleep. Stark reality amidst dreams of the Beyond.

What is the magic touch which puts you in tune?

Losing focus, I stare at the wall; by chance my eyes fall on the soul-birds of a supreme artist. These birds are inspiration-manifested and free – what need is there to create, when the heart tingles with delight?

But it is not for vanity I wish to write, it is the excitement of the chase – the barriers between worlds as thin as an iota of grace.

It is all there, it is all done, claim the yogi’s and seers. Open your heart and Eye to see the world within, they say.

Frustratingly close, though, this world of inspiration; tantalising and elusive, I wish it was so near.

How to express the inexpressible? How to capture the joy of the spirit? The little “I” cannot achieve. It is by necessity a voyage into the unknown, relying on faith. No longer my ability, but someone else’s rhythm, someone else’s game. God’s Vision, God’s toy, but will He wish to use me?

Footnotes

Soul-birds by Sri Chinmoy

The chill bites through a thin winter’s jacket, so I walk at a quicker pace up the hill. Still, a rather aimless march – just a break for blurry eyes and cramped legs.

I contemplate the local church on the hill. The sombre graveyard, the memories of a young child – sitting in a service I didn’t understand, counting off hymns, thinking of football. I’m not so comfortable with the glare of gravestones, but the church still pulls me in. What do you find in a church these days?

Tentatively, I push on the door; it is unlocked, rare faith in a modern world of distrust and security concern. Squeezing into the nearest pew, I feel energised by the silence and peace. I dare not turn on the electric lights, but a solitary candle illuminates the darkening church, only the setting winter sun squinting through stained glass windows adding to the flickering light.

I’m not used to the dark, but the flickering candle burns brighter in the void. An object of focus, an unplanned meditation on the light. I remember a wise saying “The galaxy of stars and the darkest night are inseparably one.”

A few thoughts strive for attention. Am I really alone? It is very nice, but please don’t lock me in all night. Any thoughts of past boredom soon flicker away. Since 30 years past, I have learned devotion to the Christ – the Son of God, the Light of the World. This is His House waiting to be called.

I silently invoke my Guru and the Christ. To me, two brothers of the Spirit. I know they will listen to our prayers.

The silence of the stones is solid, immovable and vast. Distant visions of a monastery and endless hours of prayer. Yet, the silence pushes me to sing. I stumble through half-remembered songs my Guru composed about the Christ. Alone and isolate, I’m half worried of being caught in the act – praying, meditating and singing the tongue of Bengal.

But, from a quiet whisper, I gain a confidence and joy. The acoustics of the church magnifying my own voice. I was never good enough to be in a choir, but now I  imagine I’m singing to invisible angels.

I can hardly believe my luck. A sacred space, free and open. Today, all to myself.

So many years have passed, but now I appreciate my village church like never before.

Thank you God and the person who lit the candle in the dark.

I slip out as quietly as I came in. That was good for the soul.

~

Tejvan 9 December, 2015

Audio recording

• A visit to a local church (click to listen)

Footnotes

• St John’s Parish Church Menston – website

• Songs about Christ – at Radio Sri Chinmoy

There is only one sentence
In God’s entire Autobiography:
“The galaxy of stars
And the darkest night
Are inseparably one.”

– Sri Chinmoy [1]