Watford Quakers

I am silent, lying in bed, unable to sleep, listening. I hear my blood soughing in my ears. Then the sound spreads – but that is feeling, surely? What is the difference? It all feels the same. The sound in my fingers, in my feet. There is tingling there too – and that too seems like sound. Then the tension in my shoulders, the sucking in my belly. Outside, is there a very faint sound of traffic? I wait for the sound of the trains, but it is the dead of night. I strain to hear the water overflowing behind the house – I left a note for my neighbour – can I hear it or is it imagination? I try to hear the sound of the wind. Perhaps some people can hear the slightest movement of air, the sound of slugs crawling outside, of the creatures whose tracks appear in the snow in the morning so you know they have been there in the night. But no, what I can hear is all the feeling in my body, which grows and grows as I listen. The clench of my teeth, my eyes moving. The screaming in my ears which is always there, sometimes faint, sometimes loud. I wonder if yogis can hear their hair growing. Can they hear their digestion? Do they distinguish hearing and feeling, or is it more true to our experience to believe they are the same? Or perhaps I am in some sort of hypnagogic state – a state between sleep and waking.

I think of people who are in a coma. They hear and are not able to show that they have heard. Why do their bodily functions still happen, if their brain is not active? Because, I suppose, every cell is a little brain, knowing what it should do whether or not the brain is sending messages. Is your life still worth living in such a state? I suppose people who wake from a coma are asked that, but I have
not read what they answered. It would seem to me like an endless hell. Like being in solitary confinement – an inhuman punishment, it’s called. Yes indeed. We are a sociable species. But we are adaptable, and people do seem to survive that and other things I cannot imagine bearing.

I try to hear my thoughts. But although I am aware of them, I do not know if I am hearing them. You can think more quickly than you can speak, yet thoughts do seem to come in words. Does that mean that you can hear the ones that come in words but not the other ones? I am aware of the familiar questions, the ones that return again and again, and find no answers. The ones I wake up
with and fall asleep with. The ones that have dug deep grooves in my brain. The ones I hear when there is silence. I seem to be full of questions, and some of these I am writing down are new ones.

It has been interesting, to stop and listen.

Lindsey March

The sound of silence
The sight of darkness
The touch of nothing

I sit quiet, still
I listen. I hear
chain saw, traffic,
lorry reversing.

I let it go. Pay
attention to my breath.
I hear birdsong,
lawn mower, the heating
control. Just breathe.

Be still and know that I am God
Be still and know that I am
Be still and know that I
Be still and know that
Be still and know
Be still and
Be still
Be

Just be

The silence is thick,
tangible, substantial.
it reaches out to me, to us, from us.
Surrounds me like a blanket,
holds me like a babe-in-arms.

I am safe, secure, but
not confined or restricted.
Words may come, someone
may listen aloud. I may
hear the light and it may
terrify me, strengthen me.
Or I may just be,

just be a little more what I am, what I truly am.
May I carry that with me as I go into the noise and haste.

Stephanie Grant (for Wednesday group 21/7/10)

Described recently in this paper as “Rickmansworth’s most famous citizen”, few names associated with this area’s history are more familiar than that of William Penn. Locally, a school, a shopping centre and a leisure centre have all been named after him. His portrait hangs in Rickmansworth High Street on a pub sign. Basing House, his former home was subsequently the council’s headquarters and now houses the Three Rivers Museum.

Beyond the commemorative names though, the fact that he had something to do with the origins of the US state of Pennsylvania may be as much as many locals actually know about him.

Born in 1644 and the son of an admiral, Penn became a convinced Quaker at the age of 22 in a time of political and religious turmoil when members of this radical egalitarian group were frequently beaten, imprisoned and tortured. Penn himself, a prolific writer and outspoken critic of the establishment in church and state, was imprisoned repeatedly for his faith and for challenging measures to outlaw dissent.

It was Penn’s faith that drove him to harness his other talents, learning and family advantages in the foundation of a “holy experiment”, a New World society free from religious persecution in Pennsylvania, still known today as ‘the Quaker State’. Almost uniquely among colonial leaders he respected Native Americans and treated them as friends and equals in negotiating and trading. Some two hundred Quakers from Rickmansworth and Chorleywood as well as thousands from elsewhere in Britain, Europe and other American colonies, left home to share his vision of a free, peaceful and tolerant society in which each could follow the leadings of God from within rather than endure persecution under the rule of clerics and kings who feared where such visions might lead. Penn’s carefully drafted Constitution of 1682 included democratic restrictions to his own powers as Governor and reached for the lofty ideals of freedom and equality that later inspired the Declaration of Independence and the US Constitution.

Penn’s great project was, in some ways, a victim of its own success as many other settlers, of different faiths and none, were drawn to Pennsylvania and prospered there, inevitably evolving the character of his ‘experiment’. He died in 1718 and his plain gravestone can be seen a few miles from Rickmansworth, in the garden of the Quaker Meeting House at Jordans. Fittingly it carries no grand epitaph although Penn was the author of many Quaker maxims for living including the simple, impossible and essential; “To be like Christ is to be a Christian”.

Simon Colbeck is a member of Watford Quaker Meeting. Reprinted from the Watford Observer 22nd October 2010.

How does it sound when removed from the dulcet tones of Art Garfunkel? It’s a fleeting experience as the sound we mostly hear is noise. Our friend Art had a rather enchanting way of reminding us of that special scary quietness that makes its presence felt for us sometimes.

Like standing looking up at the stars shimmer on the blue-black velvet night sky, and sound is hushed, and stillness settles, slowly surrounding us.

When I saw the last eclipse of the sun, as the moon passed between earth and sun, we experienced an eerie silence. It made me aware of the birds who became very quiet as the sky darkened. The moon cloaked the sun and silently as it passed by, and the sun went on its way past the moon, and all happened in silence. It was a quiet, majestic experience.

The silence that is God leaves us at times frustrated. But could our mentality cope with such communication. When Moses spoke with God in the mountains and received the ten commandments, the Jews were so terrified of the sound of His voice they pleaded with Moses to beg God not to speak to them. How might we feel at such a time?

Silence can be golden, but by communicating we can develop our relationships. That is an avenue down which we can show love and share support for one another.

JK 21/7/10

‘I give thanks for laughter and tears, for sleep and silence’

This vocal ministry from the final session of this yearly meeting summed up the experience for me. There was much laughter, in and out of sessions, and joy at being together, meeting friends old and new, making and re-making connections with one another. There were also tears, and we give thanks for those too. Tears, because, try as we might, we fail to understand one another. Tears, because,try as we might, we can not see how we can give more. Tears of frustration, tears of release. I give thanks too for those who held those who cried, physically and spiritually.

When we open ourselves fully to the spirit in worship, we make ourselves vulnerable, we let go our defences to allow the spirit in and we risk tears, and anger, as well as inspiration and joy.

Considering whether to allow journalists into Yearly Meeting made us very aware of our vulnerability and our need to feel secure in worship together, in order for our business method to work. We found ourselves emboldened to ‘live adventurously’ and to ask that journalists be invited to attend Yearly Meeting in future. Next year we expect to consider sustainability and I personally hope we will make decisions that will be interesting enough to be reported in the media. In another session we also found much to encourage us in continuing to engage with the political process, at all levels, each in our own way.

It was good to hear of the positive progress that has been made towards legal changes in the direction of greater equality for same-sex marriages, and how this has been helped by the clarity of last year’s decision. Another delightful piece of news is that, for the first time since 1993, the tabular statement shows an increase in numbers actively involved in our worshipping communities.

In the closing session of the Meeting I felt myself strongly drawn to Isaac Penington’s words:

‘Our life is love, and peace, and tenderness; and bearing one with another, and forgiving one another, and not laying accusations one against another; but praying one for another, and helping one another up with a tender hand.’
Quaker Faith and Pratice

Stephanie Grant