Rainy Reflections

We are at the train station in Oxford, and it’s hard to imagine a gloomier setting or a gloomier day. No one looks like they’re embarking on a fun journey; they just seem weary, all bundled up in overcoats and woolen scarves waiting on the platform and watching the board for arrival times. There is an intermittent announcement saying that if we see something that “doesn’t look right” we should report it. Frankly, nothing looks quite right, but that’s just me. We are going to Worcester, a town to the north, to meet up with our Welsh friends, Nick and Hilary. Rain and heavy winds are predicted.

It’s less than two hours by train to Worcester. When we arrive, our friends are already waiting at the station, dear and familiar. The weather has gotten worse, and we decide that a pub is our best destination. Nick navigates the urban driving with some trepidation and talks fondly about his community of farmers in Wales. “You work together, and you tell stories. That’s rural life,” he says. He’s comfortable in that world. He’s a conservationist, but more of a farmer, and he appreciates the “bottomless well” of stories the locals have to share.

Outside the pub, the grass is very green, muddy puddles are forming, and rain lashes against the windows, but we’re in a cozy booth, and we order tea and Sunday roast. We talk about kids and grandkids, and places we love. Hilary and I inevitably reflect on getting older: the fragility, the gratitude, the continual adjustments, the surprise of it all. We met Nick and Hilary more than a decade ago in a queue at LAX, and we discovered so many parallels in our lives we deemed them our mirror friends. It was an unlikely beginning to a friendship, but the bond has held. 

Yesterday I walked through a graveyard in a village near Oxford and entered a 12th century church, a lovely, welcoming oasis of peace. I meditated, said a silent prayer in my own way, and then noticed a sign inviting visitors to make prayer requests. Imagine that? You write your prayer request on a little white card, leave it in a basket, and some diligent, earnest stranger will pray the prayer. Maybe it’s silly, but I picked up a pencil and wrote one. It felt good to put what I was feeling into words, and I figured, you never know, can’t hurt, why not? And here’s the card I left in the basket:

Then I walked among the gravestones. Many date back centuries, and I can’t always read the inscriptions, but I love the chiseled lettering and the care it reveals, the tenderness and thought. Some stones are covered with lichen and moss. Some lean into each other, others are broken and eroded by weather and time. But the names and dates bracket the lives of real people, interred here with love. A few died very young. I can imagine the heartbreak, the tears shed in this place, the universal sense of loss and longing in every era of history, the return to earth and stardust. There are clusters of tiny snowdrops growing around some of the stones, poignant and persistent nods to life. I find the churchyard oddly comforting. It speaks of time on a deeper scale, and of the brevity and mystery of each life. Love endures.

As you can see from my prayer request,  I’ve been worried and dismayed. The reasons keep accumulating. But I’m thinking about these questions posed by writer and critic Gabriel Valdez: Why do we diminish ourselves in doubt and self-built isolation, forget our accomplishments, and underestimate the power in good work and small deeds, one by one? He reminds us that we are facing someone we have already defeated once, not some unconquerable force, not even someone smart. How awful that this nightmare has been unleashed, but there will be backlash, legal action, midterm elections, powerful opposition. “Your job is to do something small but measurable every day that ensures you are not the one being moved off your norms, that ensures you are connecting to community around you,” he writes.

I intend to try. We’ll be heading home to California soon. 

Meanwhile, dusk is settling over meadows and churchyards. We have walked in beauty. We have met our grandchildren, laughed with friends, shared our stories. We honor the struggles of our ancestors and will try to make a good world for the little ones just beginning. We love too deeply to ever give up. I’ve been typing this on the train ride back to Oxford, and we’re approaching the station now. It’s dark and rain is falling, but I am carrying my light.