The Power of Art

Last Wednesday, our Ministers' Meeting enjoyed a wonderful day out together, visiting Compton Verney in Warwickshire. It is mainly an art gallery, set in gorgeous grounds. The first painting we saw was a large one, An Eruption of Vesuvius by Moonlight by Pierre-Jacques Volaire (see below, apologies for slightly wonky image).

It stopped me in my tracks - such a wonderfully dramatic image. The photo above doesn't do justice to it, but the vivid contrast between the fire and energy of the volcano and the peaceful moon rising in the bay beyond it was... awesome. The explanation next to it reads, "The eruptions of Vesuvius were among the greatest spectacles of the eighteenth century and fired the imagination of artists throughout Europe... an inscription on the back records that it was painted sur le lieu (on the spot). Given the size of the painting, this is probably not true, but it conveys the important role that artists played in recording such sights before the invention of the camera."

There are several figures in the foreground, which strikes me as somewhat reckless... but each to their own, I guess.

My point in sharing this is to highlight the difference between art and photographs, which struck me at the time when I read the accompanying blurb. The art work may be almost photographic in its vivid reality, but the artist was free to compose his painting in the most skilful way in order to heighten the drama. Because what takes the breath away is the contrast between the yellows, reds, oranges and browns of the volcano and the greys, blues and whites of the peaceful, moonlit landscape. And they are balanced, juxtaposed, perfectly.

Sometimes, of course, a skilled photographer can capture such drama, contrast and balance - all of us can bring such photos to mind. My DH takes the magazine, Amateur Photographer, and there are sometimes astonishing images published in it, which achieve this magical effect. 

Whatever the medium, the power of art comes from the connection between the hand and eye of the artist and the eye and heart of the viewer. When this connection is made, it can make us (the viewers) see the world in a new way.

Nature Works Wonders

When I read the text of this week's quotation by the French mountaineer, Jean-Christophe Lafaille, my first reaction was, 'Well, it seems that God has a sense of humour.' It read, "Nature works wonders, it's up to me to enjoy it."

Because the closest I'm going to get to nature (or at least, to the natural world outside) in the next few weeks is looking at it through the large picture window in the lounge. Which does, admittedly, give me a wonderful view of the back garden. I am confined to barracks following an operation on my left foot, which is now the size of Minnie Mouse's, due to all the dressings on it, and am under strict instructions from the surgeon to stay inside for the first four weeks and only walk for five minutes in each hour.

Yet I quickly realised that there was another, far more positive way of interpreting Lafaille's words, "Nature works wonders." It's only the third day since the operation and I can already tell that my brilliant, complex body is doing her level best to heal, all completely without my volition. It is the nature of our bodies to repair themselves when they have been wounded or injured. And I am in awe of my body's ability to adapt to her new circumstances.

And in awe of my mind, which has also adapted very swiftly to my presently limited mobility. I have (with my husband's help, for which I am truly grateful) all the "necessaries" around me, within easy reach as I sit in my reclining chair, my foot supported by pillows. My laptop and journals, Kindle and phone, are on the piano stool to the right of my chair, which is now an impromptu 'bedside table'; and my crutches and crochet and drink are to my left, within easy reach. And the TV remotes are on the arm of my chair. I had the foresight to buy myself a cheap plastic laptray beforehand, on which the laptop balances well. So hopefully, I won't have to bother him too much during the day, except for meals.

I am also exceedingly grateful for the love and good wishes of many friends, and my immediate family, who have all rung in the last couple of days to check how I'm feeling. My son brought his partner and my very new grandson round for a brief visit on Wednesday and it was gorgeous to see them. And a dear friend from the village is kindly keeping me company this evening, as well as yesterday evening and all day Saturday, as this is the week of the village panto and my husband is not only directing it, but is also Group Eight's sound engineer. 

I feel incredibly blessed and hopeful about a good recovery, a couple of months down the road. I am sure that nature will indeed work wonders.

Spoiled by Abundance

 This week's quotation, by German-language writer, Elias Canetti, has me puzzled: "You cannot live in a really beautiful city in the long run - it drives out all longing."

Does it? Really? It sounds as though he is saying people become jaded and cynical if they are surrounded by too much beauty, and begin to take it for granted. But I don't agree. It is true that close familarity can stale the sense of wonder, but only if we let it.

I believe it is always possible to recapture our sense of wonder, through sacred living - by weaving moments of attention into our days. We've lived near Northampton for the last thirty plus years, but I still sometimes look up beyond the banal shop fronts and admire the architecture of the buildings. I can think of four, both ancient and modern, straight away. First, the glorious Charles Rennie Mackintosh building that is 78, Derngate; I couldn't find a licensable photo on Google, but it is a spectacular example of Mackintosh's attention to detail. 

Second, the Victorian gothic splendour of the Guildhall, 

(photo: Wikimedia Commons)

Third, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre on Sheep Street, which is a Norman round church (again I couldn't find an image), and the pointing finger of the National Lifts Tower (better known to locals as the Northampton Lighthouse) which is visible for miles around in all directions, the sight of which means that they are nearly home to generations of Northamptonians.

(photo: Wikimedia Commons)

And that is only the ones I thought of straight away. So no, Mr Canetti, I do not believe that familiarity stales our sense of wonder and longing, unless we wander around in a state of distraction, our eyes looking downwards to our mobile phones and forget to look up and see the beauty all around us.

Wonder and Faith

 The German philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach wrote, "Wonder is the outer face of faith - faith is the inner soul of wonder."

I had to think about that for a while... because I don't believe they are necessarily so closely related as he seems to think. I believe we can experience wonder without faith, for example. Many non-religious people would say that they can feel a sense of wonder about such matters as the size of infinite space, or the beauties of nature. But they would deny that their wonder had any component of faith in it.

But sometimes, if we are people of faith, it can perhaps make it easier for us to feel a sense of wonder. l don't think I'd make much more of it than that. 

I have blogged before about faith and wonder here, as recently as January. I don't think Feuerbach's quote has added much to my understanding...

Miracles in the Silence

 The 19th century German novelist Wilhelm Raabe wrote, "The greatest miracles take place in great silence." 

Hmm. Not so sure I agree with that, especially at this time of year. I am one hundred per cent sure that the miracle that was the birth of Jesus did not take place in "great silence".  Mary was an ordinary human woman, and would have felt all the pain and travail of labour - I'm sure she would not have suffered in silence. And Joseph would have breathed awkward words, intended to be of comfort. The animals would have been moving around in their stable and outside, perhaps the sounds of distant Bethlehem would have been heard, or the calls of night birds and animals.

The birth of every child is a miracle. I have been through it twice and I have never lost my sense of awe and wonder. That a single act of love can lead to the growth of another human being over nine months, changing from a few cells into a fully-functioning human baby. That my body provided everything the growing foetus needed to nourish it. That I was able to endure the pain of labour because I knew (hoped desperately) that in the end, I would have a living, healthy baby. That miracle happened twice for me.

Our world is full of miracles, if we have eyes to see. As many of you know, I walk regularly in Salcey Forest and am able to observe at first hand the miracle that is the annual cycle of the seasons. At the moment, most of the trees are bare of leaves, which have formed a wet slush underfoot and the bushes have been nearly denuded of berries by the hungry birds. But after Christmas I will soon see shoots of new green, the annual miracle of renewal. By March, the Forest will have transformed into a burgeoning green miracle. Then in the Autumn, the trees will remember the necessity of a season of dormancy and will begin to shed their leaves once more.

Miracles do not only happen in nature. How we interact with each other can result in changes of heart and mind - surely a minor miracle in itself.

But I do believe that *appreciation* of each miracle, as it happens, does take place in "great silence" - that moment of awe and wonder when we take in the miracle that it taking, has taken place.

I love the prayer, quoted by Rachel Naomi Remen in her book, My Grandfather's Blessings:

Days pass and the years vanish

and we walk sightless among miracles.

Lord, fill our eyes with seeing 

and our minds with knowing.

Let there be moments when your Presence,

like lightning, illuminates

the darkness in which we walk. 

Help us to see, wherever we gaze,

that the bush burns, unconsumed.

And we, clay touched by God,

will reach out for holiness and

exclaim in wonder,

"How filled with awe is this place

and we did not know it."

May we all have the sight to perceive the everyday miracles in our lives. Amen

The Wonderful in the Everyday

When I woke up this morning, the sky was blue and clear - such a joy after the torrential rain of the past few days - I might even go for a walk (well wrapped-up) later. Which fits well with this week's quotation, from American writer Pearl S. Buck, who wrote, "The true wisdom of life is to see the wonderful in the everyday." I have written about the wonder I feel when I walk in Salcey Forest many times, particularly here.

Yet wonder is not only to be found in the natural world. I remember some years ago,I blogged about being in Tesco's one December morning, slogging through the crowded store, feeling very bah-humbuggerish, when I saw a small child in a pushchair gazing with wonder and delight at the Christmas decorations on the ceiling. They weren't "ho, hum, just another Christmas" to him, they were a source of wonder. He taught me a lesson I have never quite forgotten. "Out of the mouths (and eyes) of babes..."

So this year, in spite of torrential rain, and the potential of a new lockdown cause by the Omicron variant of Covid, I'm going to make a strong effort to be aware of, to live in the wonder and appreciate the beauty and wonder all around me.

 

Sometimes you just have to go with the flow

 This week's quotation, by the splendidly named Halldor Laxness, reads, "Whoever always asks about the purpose of things will never discover their beauty."

We Unitarians, and religious folk in general, I guess, are often interested in the purpose and meaning of things - of life itself, and what comes after. We read books and articles, attend conferences and retreats, all to go deeper into the purpose and meaning of things. And that is good, and necessary.

But sometimes, just sometimes, it is better to just forget about all that and lose ourselves in the awe and wonder that is life. I often feel this when I am out in the Forest, like I was this Tuesday. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and the signs of Spring were everywhere. And I found myself filled with awe and gratitude for the beauty all around me. I felt like shouting alleluias and felt surrounded by the grace of God. The trees around me looked like the pillars of a cathedral.

And so I stopped and gave thanks. Sometimes, you just have to go with the flow.

Not a Petrified City

 Novalis, the 18th century German philosopher, mystic and poet, wrote, "Nature is a petrified magic city." I wish I could have read this quotation in its wider context, because as it stands, I could not disagree more. At least with his first adjective... magic city, yes, petrified...?

Because one thing I know for certain, Nature is *never* petrified. Since lockdown began, I have been walking most days in Salcey Forest, the entrance to which is only five minutes' walk away from my front door. And I have been thrilled by being able to witness the ever-changing landscape of my daily walk, from the buds and new growth of Spring, the full glorious greenness of Summer and the wonderfully changeful colours of Autumn. Even today, on a grey and misty morning, I have seen things still growing, still changing. And I know that even in the depths of Winter, there will still be activity in the natural world - I will still be able to see evergreen trees, and holly berries and listen to the birds overhead. Seeds will be waiting under the soil, ready to burst forth with new life next year.

Even mountains and rocks, like the ones pictured on the postcard, are not entirely petrified. They may seem so, to our human eyes, but if they are also subject to change as wind, sun and rain act on them. And rivers and seas have the power to soften jagged outlines over time. One of my regular activities, when we visit our favourite part of Wales, is to walk along the stones thrown up by the tide and marvel at the rounded shapes and multifarious colours of the pebbles.

A while ago, my son persuaded us to watch an astonishing video on YouTube, called Timelapse of the Future: A Journey to the End of Time, which took the longest view of our future as it is possible to take. It is here and is well worth a watch. It showed that everything, absolutely everything, is subject to change.

Watching it made me feel very small and insignificant. On the scale of universes, we are not even microscopice dots on microscopic dots. Nevertheless, we are here in a particular time and place, and it is our responsibility to do whatever we can, where we are, to ensure that Nature continues to be a magic city, not a petrified one.

Trees are Poems

 Khalil Gibran, author of The Prophet, wrote, "Trees are poems that the earth writes in the sky." When I read that, my heart soared in recognition.

Because that is *exactly* the feeling I get when I walk in Salcey Forest and see the trees outlined against the sky, whether that sky is blue or grey. Each tree unique, whether it is in its prime, or a young sapling, or an old tree somehow clinging to life, finding the strength to bring forth new growth each Spring. As Tolkien wrote in The Lord of the Rings, "some as different as one tree is from another of the same name but quite different growth and history; and some as different as one tree-kind from another, as birch from beech, oak from fir."

All this year, since lockdown began, I walked most days in the Forest, and have watched the trees go through their annual cycle of the budding and new growth and blossom of Spring, through the full-leaved glory of Summer, and the fruits of Autumn, before their leaves started to change colour and fall. And now some of them are naked and splendid, their bare branches writing patterns in the sky. And they are wonderful in their complexity. 

And I love the interplay between trees and the landscape they inhabit. This year, I have posted hundreds of photos on Facebook of beautiful trees... because their beauty fills my heart with wonder and gratitude, that I live on the same planet. The glory of God made manifest in creation.

What fills your heart with wonder? 

Living in the Present

 Blaise Pascal, the French mathematician, philosopher and theologian, had it right, when he wrote, "The present is the only time that is really ours."

I am reminded of this each morning, as I take my daily constitutional in Salcey Forest. I am so blessed to live within walking distance of it, particularly at this time of year, when the Autumn colours are at their most glorious.

Yesterday morning, I went for my walk early doors, and it was wonderful - wonder-full. The sun was shining and the golds, browns, coppers and bronzes of the Autumn leaves were glowing in its light. In this Autumn weather, I take the same route every day, out and back, because my circular 'Summer' route is too muddy, even with boots. And had it not been that the ground was both cold and muddy underfoot, I would have taken off my walking boots and gone barefoot, because it really did feel like I was treading on holy ground.

At the furthest point of my walk, I went to turn round, and this caught my eye...

I stood still, holding my breath, drinking in the beauty. I truly felt I was in the presence of the Divine. I don't know how long I stood there... a couple of minutes perhaps. Then bowed my head and gave thanks.

The other wonder-full thing about yesterday's walk was the presence of a pale moon high in the blue sky. But whenever I tried to take a photo of it, it was masked by trees. Until I found this...

And I think of the times I have walked through these same woods, my mind full of other things - the next scene for my book (I find walking helps me to think this through) or the tasks of the day ahead of me, and have missed this glory.

Early morning sunlight

filtering through the trees, 

sharpness of the shadows.

Pale moon in the blue sky,

pure birdsong in my ears,

Undiluted wonder

takes my breath away.

The Confidence of Experience

This week's quotation is by Sylvia Plath, "Nothing broadens the horizon, gives you as much confidence, as experience."

No idea why the quote is illustrated by a photo of a whale's tail, but there we are... :)

And yes, I agree with her, up to a point. I can remember the very first time I led worship for Northampton Unitarians, in February 2001. I had spent weeks preparing the service, anxiously rehearsing every element of it, changing this, tweaking that... On the day, I was a bundle of nerves, my hands shaking so badly that I had to lay my papers down. Now, 19 years later (how did *that* happen?) I still take a good deal of trouble to put a service together, but I am no longer afraid. I have led worship so many times that I have confidence that I know how to do this. And mostly, it goes reasonably well.

That's not to say I am blasé about the process... far from it. I believe it is one of the most important things I do, as a minister. It is a huge privilege, which I am always conscious of, to share my mind and heart with a congregation...

So experience does broaden the horizon, does give me confidence.

BUT

At the same time, I believe it is important to face the world as though for the first time, to retain a sense of awe and wonder, at the glories of God's creation, at the wonderful complexities of the human heart, at the serendipitous work of grace in the world. And that happened to me this morning... I went upstairs at 7.00 am, to do my morning sit. And my breath was taken away by two views, one out of my West-facing window, one out of my South-east facing window. Here they are... the setting moon and the rising sun.

Had I come up ten minutes later, this beauty, so transient, would have been and gone. Such a gift, such a grace! I was astonished by the beauty, by the glory. And so grateful for the eyes to see, the heart to marvel. Because I am still open to wonder, still "innocent", if you like. Not bored, not cynical, not "meh, seen it all before". Because I think that sometimes, unless we are careful, too much experience (of a bad kind) can steal our sense of wonder, close us down to awe.

So yes, experience is good, experience is helpful. But innocence is so important too...

The Joys of Gathered Community

I have just returned from a wonderful, wonder-full week at the Nightingale Centre at Great Hucklow. Summer School 2019.

(I'm not sure who this photo is by, but whoever it was, thank you!)

Our theme this year was 'Theology in the Flesh: How might our embodied experience shape our answers to life's ultimate questions?' It was such a rich week... full of deep sharing, a wide range of optional activities and, above all, Summer School magic.

I have been attending Summer School each year from 2009, and every year it is the same... a bunch of disparate Unitarians from all over the UK and further afield come together in community and create something so very special. I come away at the end of the week feeling enriched and grounded and whole.

While I was there this year, I felt moved to write a prayer:

Spirit of Life and Love,
Thank you for the many blessings of Summer School;
For our sacred community, where it is okay to be authentic;
For the theme talk speakers, group leaders, worship leaders, optional session leaders and the Summer School panel, who make it all possible;
For each and every one of us, who choose to risk being vulnerable;
For the staff of the Nightingale Centre, whose quiet efficiency makes us feel so welcome;
For the joys of reunions with old friends, and for making new ones;
For the beauties of the Derbyshire countryside, which enfolds and surrounds us;
For sunlight on green grass and the sound of children's laughter;
For the chance to learn new ways of thinking and understanding, and kinder ways of being together;
For the stretching of bodies, minds and hearts, through our groups and activities and worship;
For giving and receiving,
For sharing and silence,
For food and faith and fellowship;
For all these contributions to the magic which is Summer School,
I am truly grateful.
Amen

The Gift of Wonder

At this time of the year, I can end up feeling distinctly un-Christmassy. Positively bah-humbuggerish, in fact. As I have written elsewhere: "By the time December comes, we will be blatting around like the proverbial blue-bottomed flies, buying presents, sending cards, ordering turkeys and making the hearts of the supermarket shareholders glad by spending our hard-earned cash on excessive amounts of food and drink to see us through the festive season. Then, when Christmas Day has come and gone, many of us will end us with post-Christmas indigestion - too much food, too much drink, too much everything."

When I am doing the weekly food shop, the commercial over-kill of Christmas is only too apparent. The supermarket shelves are groaning with "seasonal" goodies, most of which have either too much sugar or too much fat in them. Not to mention the booze, which of course I have forsworn this year, and which is on offer on every aisle-end.

image: archive.aweber.com

So it was a particularly welcome gift this morning, to spot a toddler in a pushchair, gazing up at the Christmas decorations that festooned the supermarket ceiling, with a rapt expression of wonder on his face. I pointed this out to his Mum, and it made her day too. Of course, to him, it is all new and wonderful and wonder-full. I was so grateful for the reminder of what Christmas really is about - not the food and the drink and the presents, but the joy and the sharing and the sense of wonder at the birth of a child. And I share a reflection which I wrote some years ago, for times such as these:

Let us take a moment to appreciate all the good things in our lives; our comfortable homes our many possessions, which make our lives easy and secure.

But more importantly, the blessings that money cannot buy:
the love of families;
the companionship of our friends;
this beloved community of freedom and trust;
the beauties of nature;
our bodies - those complex systems that work in such mysterious ways;
our health;
the very air that we breathe.

Help us to realise how rich we are already, and help us to ask the question "do I need this?" rather than "do I want this?" in relation to everything.

Help us to realise that true happiness lies in wanting what you have. And in a sense of wonder.

Amen

 

 

 

 

 

The Wonder of Sight

This morning I had to leave very early, at 7.00 am, to get to a meeting. Boy, oh boy, I am so glad that I did. The journey over was amazing.

I started out in the darkness, with my headlights picking out the frosty branches of the trees. As I travelled on, through Yeats' "night and the light and the half light" the world turned from a monochrome pre-dawn grey through the palest peaches and apricots as the sun came up. Every individual twig on every individual tree was thrown into sharp relief by the magical light of the early morning sun, and the colours were fabulous - every shade of brown and gold and grey and green you could imagine. I felt like I was driving through a landscape painting.

I feel so very blessed to have been awake to the beauty around me.

Penny Plain or Tuppence Coloured?

Do you like your religion penny plain or tuppence coloured? In Christian terms, I would guess that if you are Protestant, the answer is likely to be the former, if Catholic, the latter. This difference was brought home to me yesterday evening, when we went to a light-show at Amiens Cathedral, which ingeniously projected colour onto the very elaborate facade, to make it look as though it was painted.

Oh. My. It was breathtaking, incredible, awe-inspiring. As my husband commented, just imagine being a mediaeval person arriving here on a pilgrimage to see John the Baptist's head (which rather grisly relic is kept in the Cathedral) or on your way to St. Iago de Compostela. Imagine the awe and reverence this building would inspire. Then, walking into that lofty vaulted space and participating in the high mystery of the mass, with its chanting and incense and bells. It must have been a mind-blowing experience.

And I was not unaffected. I can recall feeling similarly blown away the first time I saw a video of the Hindu festival of Diwali - it was all so bright, so rich, so vivid, and yes, so awe-inspiring.

And yet, so very unlike the usual monochrome, non-ritualistic Unitarian, words-based hymn-sandwich type service, where the closest we get to ritual is the lighting of the chalice at the beginning of the service, and maybe a few candles of joy and concern.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating loads of symbolism and ritual in the average Unitarian service, far from it. We come from a very different religious tradition, where it is considered to be important that the congregation is intellectually engaged with the service. And that is good. But as I have said in another blogpost, there is nothing wrong with engaging the heart and the senses too; perhaps a little more light and colour and ritual on occasion would not do us any harm.

There was an interesting coda to all this. Today we visited Laon Cathedral, which inside is much more austere and much less highly decorated - there was less gold statuary around the place, and the nave soars upwards towards the beautiful vaulting, and forwards to the magnificent rose window in the east end. The effect was light and airy; and I felt so much more at ease. Although I can be thrilled and awe-inspired by light and drama, too much fills me with unease. The light and austere interior of Laon Cathedral was much more to my spiritual taste than the decorated glory of Amiens.

High above the Clouds

Flying across the Atlantic, high above the snowfield of clouds last week, I had some thoughts:

I reflect on the manmade-ness of human time. Because humans have divided the world into time zones, I will be going back in time five hours during this journey. Yet from my window I can see the engine and wing moving serenely forwards over the endless miles of fluffy white clouds.

Another odd thing is the strong inclination of my brain to "make sense" of what my eyes are seeing, so for example at this moment, I could swear that I was looking out over the snow to the sea in the distance, and beyond that, the blue horizon. There are clouds overhead, and another aircraft is leaving a vapour trail high above us. We seem to be crawling along, hardly moving, but I know we are travelling at hundreds of miles an hour, completing a journey across the Atlantic in hours rather than days.

A break in the clouds below looks like a blue lake. ... Just now there was a proper break in the clouds, and to my amazement I could see the sea, thousands of feet below. 'The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls.'- thank you, Susan Cooper.

It was a wonderful experience - I was so grateful for the majesty and awesomeness of it all.

Senses and Spirituality

Human beings are complicated organisms - we have bodies, we have minds, and we have souls. In order to grow into the best people that we can be, we need to nourish all of them. In religion, our bodies often get ignored; all the emphasis is on what we think and believe and feel. But our bodies need nourishment too - we have to eat a balanced diet, exercise regularly, get enough sleep and so on. if we neglect them, we will become unhealthy, and all of a sudden everything seems twice as difficult, like pushing a hippopotamus uphill. If we look after our bodies, they will look after us.

Rabbi Lionel Blue shared an interesting viewpoint about bodies when he wrote: "My body is not just a lump of meat. It thinks, and has its own insight. Many times it came to my aid when my mind and my soul could not help me. I was in a train at night, surrounded by Arabs making their long way home to Morocco. Our politics and our religions were separated by two decades of misunderstanding and political animosity. It was hunger which brought us together, not theology or ideology; common hunger and the desire to have a little taste of what the other person was eating."

Before I read that, I hadn't really thought about my body having feelings of its own. But it's true: if I am sad, I don't want reasons or explanations or even spiritual insights; I just want a cuddle. And it is my body - through my senses - which gives me access to a whole world of beauty and spirituality. This morning, on my run, the feel of the sunlight on my skin, the taste of cool water, the sight of summer flowers by the roadside and the sound of birdsong combined into one joyous paean of praise for the universe.

Through what we see and hear, smell, touch and taste, we can be transported from our mundane lives into another dimension.

Bodies have their own memories too - for example, have you ever been transported to another time and another place by a smell or a sound or a taste? I only have to hear the first chord of The Air That I Breathe by the Hollies to be back in 1974, fourteen years old and very sad. I cry every time I hear it - can't help it! Even though the circumstances of my life have changed beyond recognition, and the emotional scars of young love have long healed, my fourteen-year-old self is somewhere in there, and reacts when she hears that song.

Human beings are indeed complicated organisms, and I find the fact of our bodies, minds and souls working together wondrous to contemplate. May they all be nourished in the coming days.

The wonder of it all

I spend a lot of time on my computer most days of the week, either working, or browsing Unitarian blogs or Facebook. Having been born in a pre-personal computer age, (which really wasn't that long ago, no matter what my kids might think!) I am still blown away by the sheer wonder of it all. This was brought home to me by a comment, made about my last blogpost here, on Facebook, by Rev. Victoria Weinstein, who is mentioned in it. She had been alerted to it by a mutual friend, Paul Wilczynski, whose wife comes from my small part of the UK. So an American Unitarian Universalist minister in Massachusetts made contact with a British Unitarian ministry student in Northamptonshire, linked by a friend in South Carolina - and almost instantaneously. Can you imagine how long it would have taken, and what a complicated undertaking it would have been, before the existence of the World Wide Web?

It was Unitarian Sir Tim Berners-Lee who came up with the idea of the World Wide Web. Joshua Quittner, technology editor of Time magazine, describes what happened:

"he cobbled together a relatively easy-to-learn coding system — HTML (HyperText Mark-up Language) — that has come to be the lingua franca of the Web; it's the way Web-content creators put those little colored, underlined links in their text, add images and so on. He designed an addressing scheme that gave each Web page a unique location, or url (universal resource locator). And he hacked a set of rules that permitted these documents to be linked together on computers across the Internet. He called that set of rules HTTP (HyperText Transfer Protocol). And on the seventh day, Berners-Lee cobbled together the World Wide Web's first (but not the last) browser, which allowed users anywhere to view his creation on their computer screen. In 1991 the World Wide Web debuted, instantly bringing order and clarity to the chaos that was cyberspace."

The thing that brings a lump to my throat is that Berners-Lee could have become a millionaire, a billionaire, as a result of this inspired invention. But from the very beginning, he has fought to keep the Web open to all and free to all. Which is such a gift to the world. I salute him.

1991 - that is only 20 years ago. The world has changed so much since I was a little girl in the sixties. My life as a child then was not enormously different to that of my parents in the 1930s. OK, there were more cars, and we had a television, but my childhood activities and pleasures were much the same as theirs had been: exploring the neighbourhood (I was lucky enough to be brought up in the country); reading (voraciously!); playing board games; doing jigsaw puzzles; building lego - simple pleasures.

I think that things started to spiral out of control with the advent of the first PCs - personal computers - in the early 1980s. For the first time, this amazing technology could be owned and used by ordinary people. My first computer was an Amstrad PCW, with green letters on a black screen, and 256K of memory. And I thought it was brilliant! Then Bill Gates introduced Windows, and Tim Berners-Lee invented the World Wide Web, and the whole computer world took a giant leap forward. On the entertainment front, first videos, then CDs and DVDs and MP3 players and satellite television changed the way we experience music and films. Today, hundreds of every-day objects have little computers inside them to make them work. Mobile phones are everywhere, and the latest smartphones are mini-computers all by themselves.

The sad thing about all this progress is that it is all taken so much for granted, especially by young people, who have grown up with it. Remember, it is twenty years since the invention of the World Wide Web, so a whole generation has never known a world without it, my children included. If my husband and I talk to them about what growing up in the sixties was like, the response is "how did you manage without it all?" coupled with relief that they don't have to. Sometimes I will comment on how amazing I find a particular piece of technology (for example when I watch the How does it work? programme on the Discovery channel) and they look at me with pitying smiles. They are very hard to impress. Their sense of wonder seems to have atrophied.

And I think that's a shame. I hope I'm not sounding like a Grumpy Old Woman, but I really do worry about our dependence on technology for our work and leisure. I'm a victim of this as much as anyone else; if my computer breaks down, or I can't access my e-mails or the internet for any reason, it feels as though my arm has been cut off. I can't do much of my job of serving Unitarians in the Midlands without it. But I think that it is only too easy to take all our modern marvels for granted (until they go wrong). We live in an immensely complex world, entirely reliant on the work of others and on technological innovation to live our lives. We press a switch and the computer turns on, the light turns on, the car starts. We turn on a tap and the water comes out, fresh and drinkable. We go shopping, and the shops are full of goods that have been delivered by a complex logistics network. How often do we actually consider where things come from, and how many people we are dependent on for our consumption? All these things are taken for granted; it is the nature of the complex society we live in. It is mundane, every-day, not a matter for wonder.

Well, maybe it should be. If we lived mindfully, with awareness, paying attention to the every-day miracles that make up our lives, maybe our sense of wonder would return. I have a book at home called Spiritual Literacy: Reading the Sacred in Every-day Life, which has really made me re-think how I approach that same every-day life. Frederic and Mary-Ann Brussat, the authors, explain: "The readings in this book reflect the wide variety of approaches and experiences of the sacred in everyday life. Many of us recognise the presence of Spirit moving in our lives through encounters with things, places, nature, and animals ... Our activities also put us on a spiritual path, [as does] being moved to service. A spiritual perspective is perhaps most evident in our relationships. We use this term broadly to refer to the many connections in our lives."

Reading it was a revelation for me. The Brussats have collected hundreds of examples from contemporary books and films, which they use to show the reader how to see the world with fresh eyes. Before reading it, it would never have occurred to me to thank my car for getting me where I am going, or to see the spiritual benefits of washing up mindfully. But I know now.

This is a very different approach to life. It involves being open and trusting, taking life as it comes, with thankfulness. Most importantly, it involves being aware, all the time, of the marvels around you, whether they are people or places or things. I'm not saying that we can do all this all at once; it is the work of a lifetime. But just being aware of this different approach to life may make a difference; it may help us to realise that the world is a pretty amazing place, and to count our blessings at the wonder of it all.