Watford Quakers

I went to Woodbrooke and I learnt about

Authority and Power, Apocalypse and Aftermath
the Bible – in a new light
Christianity – in the early days
Distinctives, Discovery and Deepening
the Evolving tradition, Experiencing the Spirit and Engaging with the world
Fox, George and Friends, early
the Gospel of Mark
the History of Holland House
Interfaith Initiatives
Journalling
Knots in a length of string
Library stacks and how to move them, the turnings of the Labyrinth
Muslim women, Mindfulness and Mirroring
Names, and what mine might be
Opening to the Spirit
Peace activists and Being Peace
Quakers!
Rumi and Reed-beds, Red cabbage and maples
Stephen
Talking over Tea
Understanding Islam
Volunteering – opportunities for
the Whole banana
some eXtraordinary things
Young Friends
Zen (in the tradition of Thich Nhat Hahn)

Stephanie Grant for writing group 20/10/10

As performed by Stephanie, Peter and Jim Grant on the 19th December at Watford Meeting House.

The shock was too much for him, he had to sit down. At first he could not to take it in. He just sat there trying to think what it meant. He sat for a long time, minutes, hours, holding the contents of the envelope he had unsealed in his hand. Dusk fell, but still he remained in his chair, thinking back on his life, unaware of time.

It was five weeks since Joyce had died. Although in her seventy fifth year she had died suddenly and unexpectedly. The funeral was over and the family had gone home, carefully taking it in turns to ring him each evening to make sure he was alright.

He had not let them sort through Joyce’s possessions. He had not been ready then and wanted to be alone to linger over the memories they brought to mind one last time before parting with them as he knew he must. Today he had started sorting through her things, inhaling her scent on the elaborate lace handkerchief she kept for use at weddings. Finding Josh’s first baby shoes, a rough sketch on a scrap of paper of the house they had built together and an old letter from Joyce’s sister in England. How all these things told of their life together. Then, at the back of the drawer, he had found the sealed envelope.

He had been twenty five years old when he decided to emigrate. He knew the job and prospects on offer in Canada were too good to turn down. If he stayed in England he would be in a dead end job all his life, if he was lucky enough to have a job at all.

Then three weeks before he was due to set sail he had met Joyce. By the time he was due to embark he knew that he didn’t want to leave her. He asked if he could write to her and when he had become established and had saved up enough for her fare and expenses, if she would come out to Canada and marry him. She had said “yes” that no matter what lay ahead they would get through it together.

Now he sat and pondered. Had she not meant what she said? Had she really not trusted him at all? Had she not loved him as much as he loved her? Had she thought it would be a bit of an adventure at his expense?

He had been moved by her complete faith in him, that she would leave family and friends behind and travel alone to the other side of the world to an unknown future. It had been difficult. They had both worked to the point of exhaustion. The bitter winters and isolation had been hard on them both as they started their own small business and built their home and family.

He picked up the envelope again. He took out the return ticket and saw that it had no time limitations. She could have left him and returned to England at any time. God knows, there were many occasions when he was close to despair himself and would gladly have given up and returned to the old country if HE had had a return ticket.

No, this return ticket did not mean that his Joyce had not loved him enough. It meant that even though she had the means to escape the toil and hardship, she loved him so much that she had chosen to stay with him through thick and thin.

He roused himself and made a cup of tea. What a lucky man he was to have had such a wonderful woman to share his life with him.
Chris Pettit 2010

I’ll have a return ticket to earth, please. Oh, that’s not a normal request? You’ll have to ask the authorities? Why do I want it? ~ Well, I like earth, and anyway it’s all I know, and I might prefer it to wherever I’m going …. By the way, could you ask whether it will have a date on it? Particularly the outward journey. Oh, I’m glad, that sort of ticket is open-ended – no date. And will I be able to use it if I’m a different species when I come back? So long as I can hold it, you imagine. So I’d better make sure I don’t come back as a slug. I’ve always had a particular dislike for slugs, so maybe I will need to come back as one, just to teach me to be more open-minded. I suppose the ticket may stick to my slime. It’s very very sticky slime – I know, I once stepped on a slug … About the date – yes, I do know that time won’t actually exist where I’m going, but I believe they do sort of adjust things to our prejudices, so we’re broken in gradually. And if it is allowed, earth will still have time – I think. But perhaps the date will be ‘after Mohammed’, or ‘after Armageddon’, which would take a bit of adjusting to – but not half as difficult as adjusting to being a slug … Well. please do the best you can … This is a terribly bad line – very long distance, I know, and the ether is not a good conductor. I wrote ‘not a god conductor’, but I do hope that is not true. Will you get back to me?

Sorry, Ethel, did you want to use the phone? I don’t suppose they will get back to me; they must be getting busier and busier, more and more people. But also fewer and fewer slugs. But then slugs don’t use the telephone. Oh well, maybe I’ll just have to wait and see when I get there.

Lindsey March

We went by train, by steam train, glorying in the vintage carriages, the smoke and smuts.

You went by car, with Mary and the dog, Montmorency.

We took time to visit the museum and the engine sheds, to see the tunnel and the floral displays.

You stopped to browse in the craft shop.

Our steam engine broke down and we finished the journey behind a deisel loco.

We all met up in Whitby, found the restaurant and lunched on Whitby kippers.

I gave you my return ticket. Richard gave his to Mary.

We all explored Whitby. Some climbed to the abbey ruins. Jim and I took a boat trip.

Then the return journey.

Richard drove me and Montmorency (who was so quiet we stopped to check he really was in the back of the car)home over the high moors, pointing out the old Meeting Houses on the way. Broad, open, empty spaces. Quiet, calm. We got in and I cooked the evening meal, while Richard tended the fire and tidied up.

You were much delayed.

I had time to garnish the Whitby crab and lay the table.

You had fires on the railway, and had lost your handbag. When you reached us you were desperately trying to phone the restaurant to locate your bag – but they were shut.

Eventually, we all sat down together for our meal. Time to talk through the day’s adventures, hear about the fire blackened faces of the fire-fighters, and how the steam engine had to be replaced by a diesel that was less likely to cause fires.

Epilogue, and more chat into the night.

It’s good to be together.

Stephanie Grant for Writing Group 17/11/10

About a day of our Equipping for Ministry reunion at Barmoor May 2010 and a trip on the North York Moors Railway.

There is a problem with booking in advance. One has to decide. One can’t act on impulse – unless one decides to be out of pocket.

It’s all very well living in the here and now, but as far as tickets are concerned, one cannot avoid the moment of contemplating the future. One has to book in advance. One has to decide.

Does one want an open return? How very flexible. Enough rope to hang oneself while keeping an end fixed to a point in time, when it will be yanked – and there one is.
Returned.

Does one want to return at all?

Two singles are often cheaper than a return.

Why does it cost more to come back than it does to go? Why does it cost more to come back on a Sunday? Is the increased Sunday fare a penalty for being foolish enough to return at all? Or is one’s sense of moral responsibility to return from the pursuit of freedom on the 11.16 Pendelino to Manchester Piccadilly before ones absence is discovered on Monday morning, when the world return to normality, being exploited by the train companies on behalf of their shareholders?

The fact is, however, when one considers it carefully, that the routine responsibility of the original return, absolutely, inevitably, unquestionably, actually, becomes the routine responsibility of the present here and now, of what had been previously the destination. Or to put it more simply, everyone needs clean knickers and breakfast eventually.

To return is, after all, only geographical, not temporal, and one can decide, perhaps, whether it be emotional or psychological.

However, just to be on the safe side, I’ll book two singles.

Ruth Shadwell, Novemeber 2010