Remembrance Day: a day to remember those who gave their lives for our freedom. Such a poignant if distant concept. Personally, I have never felt the touch of war. I have the utmost respect for those who do sacrifice so much, yet I feel removed from it. Within that minute of silence I attempt to visualise what it must feel like to face conflict in an unfamiliar place. Flashing across my mind are the brutal battle scenes of 'Enemy at the Gates' and 'Saving Private Ryan', interjected with dusty BBC news reports. I claw desperately at something to make the horrific reality tangible. Today I got that.
During this united moment of reflection I found myself sat in Costa. As the town hall clock struck eleven and the staff stopped serving, I with the rest of the customers, put down our coffee cups and respectfully bowed our heads. On the next table this action was exaggerated, heavier, and after normal business resumed I stole a glance to find an old man with his head in his hands.
As humdrum was reignited the old man got a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his eyes. The chair opposite him was occupied with a quilted beige winter coat and only as he retrieved it and put it on did I notice the jingle of medals it carried.
Remembrance became real today. I don't know what memory led this frail man in his woollen jumper and hearing aid to shed the tears that he did, but I do know that I am indebted to him for whatever he has been though. In the midst of that busy coffee shop the impact of war was felt this morning.
Sunday, 10 November 2013
Tuesday, 27 August 2013
Wednesday, 21 August 2013
The waltz of the rat race
Shoulders hunched.
Commuters scurry, to the breakfast meeting that they are already late for. Checking phones for the latest emails. Eyes fixed on the pavement as they mentally run through the imminent presentation. Juggling the scolding Starbucks in a desperate attempt to waken weary souls.
Stop.
Heads are upturned en-masse. The force of gravity suddenly eased. The unanimous wonder. How high is it? Who cleans the windows? The building leads the eye to the clouds. Out of the un-noticed blue comes a vertical bridge, welcoming the blinkered to a parallel world. Serenity. Stillness. Calm. Clenched shoulders drop and breaths are slowed. There is something soothing in the waltzing of the clouds across their dance floor, our sky.
The meetings haven't disappeared. The deadlines still loom. But in a few seconds a concrete covered steel frame has the capacity to teach an important lesson of perspective. Today may be comprised of caffeine and PowerPoints, but the world is out there and it's bigger than that.
Commuters scurry, to the breakfast meeting that they are already late for. Checking phones for the latest emails. Eyes fixed on the pavement as they mentally run through the imminent presentation. Juggling the scolding Starbucks in a desperate attempt to waken weary souls.
Stop.
Heads are upturned en-masse. The force of gravity suddenly eased. The unanimous wonder. How high is it? Who cleans the windows? The building leads the eye to the clouds. Out of the un-noticed blue comes a vertical bridge, welcoming the blinkered to a parallel world. Serenity. Stillness. Calm. Clenched shoulders drop and breaths are slowed. There is something soothing in the waltzing of the clouds across their dance floor, our sky.
The meetings haven't disappeared. The deadlines still loom. But in a few seconds a concrete covered steel frame has the capacity to teach an important lesson of perspective. Today may be comprised of caffeine and PowerPoints, but the world is out there and it's bigger than that.
Saturday, 13 July 2013
Friday, 5 July 2013
Wednesday, 26 June 2013
Colouring the moment
Dinosaurs, fairies, butterflies and spiders. No, this is not a fantasy version of 'I went to the shop and I bought...' These were my companions this evening. In a valiant attempt to make the most of the wonderful light evenings that late June grants, I grabbed my bike and headed along the river.
Now repeatedly I try and make a point of looking up as I go about the day to day. It's an eye-opener to see what is above the normal line of vision; the date of a building's construction, a hanging basket, or in the case of my Saturday morning, a poo-ing pigeon. Anyway, I digress.
This evening my looking up philosophy was turned upside down, for the turning of the peddles provided the entrance to a world of momentary creativity. Along the smooth tarmac some expressive minds had gone to work with coloured chalks. Now call me old fashioned, but there is a simple joy in having a child explain their drawings. What to the adult eye is a confusion of clashing colours that are not within the proper lines, is a child's exploration a world that we have long since buried.
Pride of place, the fruits of their labour are displayed on the fridge for all to admire, until the splashed orange juice and curling edges seem fit reason to scrapbook this dear snapshot of childhood for future nostalgic moments.
The beauty of chalk and tarmac is the fleeting joy it creates. This will not be preserved, framed or the subject of scrutiny. Come the next rain shower all that will be left is a dis-coloured puddle. As the cliche states 'We are human beings, not human doings'. Perhaps it's time to be. To enjoy the colour of the moment that will be washed away when the time is right. No matter how hard we try pictures fade, edges curl. Not everything can be preserved. But that is no reason not to enjoy the moment.
Now repeatedly I try and make a point of looking up as I go about the day to day. It's an eye-opener to see what is above the normal line of vision; the date of a building's construction, a hanging basket, or in the case of my Saturday morning, a poo-ing pigeon. Anyway, I digress.
This evening my looking up philosophy was turned upside down, for the turning of the peddles provided the entrance to a world of momentary creativity. Along the smooth tarmac some expressive minds had gone to work with coloured chalks. Now call me old fashioned, but there is a simple joy in having a child explain their drawings. What to the adult eye is a confusion of clashing colours that are not within the proper lines, is a child's exploration a world that we have long since buried.
Pride of place, the fruits of their labour are displayed on the fridge for all to admire, until the splashed orange juice and curling edges seem fit reason to scrapbook this dear snapshot of childhood for future nostalgic moments.
The beauty of chalk and tarmac is the fleeting joy it creates. This will not be preserved, framed or the subject of scrutiny. Come the next rain shower all that will be left is a dis-coloured puddle. As the cliche states 'We are human beings, not human doings'. Perhaps it's time to be. To enjoy the colour of the moment that will be washed away when the time is right. No matter how hard we try pictures fade, edges curl. Not everything can be preserved. But that is no reason not to enjoy the moment.
Thursday, 13 June 2013
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