THE COLOURS OF CONTENTMENT, Switzerland (Jul 06)

The Definition of a Robin

the medieval remnants of Ville de Fribourg at the Monastery Kuriousum (just out side my window)

Surrounded by the breath taking beauty of the mountains, comfortably ensconced in a snug monastery ‘inn’ with a myriad of little villages connected by picturesque wooden bridges for me to potter around in for weeks, one would think I would be in 7^th heaven. However, the human condition being quite contrary, I was beginning to feel quite home sick after the initial fortnight of enchantment. The home made everything (from the cheese, bread, honey and even crockery, to the home cured ham) which was exquisite to my palate in the beginning, was now a little ‘samey’; the melodious chimes of the countless steeples which had created an opus of delight, was now bordering on irritating (and waking me up every 15 mins). The captivating charm of the village at the foot of Mt. Sonnenberg had exhausted its little nooks and crannies that I could potter in, and frankly the climb up and down the cobbled mountain daily was wearing me out (really!! who!? cobbles mountains!!!).

The thing about pottering about a strange city (however quaint and picturesque) by yourself is, that it stretches your soul into new shapes and muscles that you didn’t realise could exist, and after a while you are a little tired of the exercise. You just want to back to your little safe misty mosty little corner of the world, and let the rest of you cosy little social tapestry define you. We are not comfortable not being a clear bundle of characteristics, experiences and most importantly being a part of something, or someone.

Evidence of my (not very original) obsession in photographing doors

Even the more sophisticated adventures of the little town of Fribourg, which was only a 15 minute walk away across the Ponte de Jean had exhausted its Jazz festivals, marionette museums, mad Celtic treasure hunts and culturally confused football frenzies. (where the entire city went world-cup mad and tooted their horns till dawn in the hope of drowning out the blessed chiming steeples!!). I was home sick! It was ridiculously hot!! and I was missing the Criccieth planning day in Manchester!!! As a fellow British tourist exclaimed, “You are Home sick for Manchester! in the midst of all this!!?!!?! (The fact that home is in Liverpool is immaterial!!!); the irony wasn’t lost on me. I could almost glimpse the seraphim’s lurching thunderbolts that hissed ‘ingrate!’ across the alpine summits.

Not being grateful for daily blessings is probably a part of our very core nature. If Adam & Eve were grateful for the Garden of Eden, we would still be in Utopia. But we yearn for everything, other than that which is before us. Eve was all too easily convinced (according to Genesis) that God was holding out on her, that there were bigger and better things withheld by divine providence, even when in the midst of Eden. I was a true daughter of Eve in my discontent.

As I was trudging back up the mountain out of breath and exhausted and feeling a little more than guilty for spending most of the lovely warm alpine morning cooped up in a dark and musty internet café, a little Robin started to hop along with me. The little comical thing didn’t take long to cheer me up as it accompanied me a good way up the mountain (I gather in hope of a crumb), and I started to sprout plagiarised poetry in my head about how birds of the field (or in this case the cobbled path) didn’t plough or weave.

Then it happened, a big hulking motorised hunk of mettle just drove over a splat of feathers and beak. I must have stood there gasping and indignant for a good 20 mins. I was upset at cosmic irony of ‘divine providence’ as much as with the hunk of mettle. After I made my way back to the refuge of the monastery, I felt quite foolish for getting upset at the road pressed robin. Being a carnivore I eat animal carcass on a daily basis without a moments hesitation and with great relish. And this bird probably lived a fuller, happier life than farm reared poultry. Hundreds of people die every day of poverty, famine, disease, or political genocide. Being an arm chair academic that measures death and oppression in statistical parameters, I hardly waste my tears on the scatter-grams and box-plots of death.

The doom and gloom of my morose reflections were back. So is that it?! for those poor sods who live in abject poverty, or lethargic indecent wealth, and are then blown up in some vicious explosive by some genocidal maniac or are flattened by a collapsing mountain in a skiing accident. If life, in its every day measures, doesn’t define us (and clearly what ever the conditions, we are incapable living up to the value of salvation) does death measure our worth.

And then I realised that it is Grace that defines us. Grace, was not just a mediation for salvation, but also a definition of all we are. When the psalmists said not a hair on our head falls without his knowledge and not a breath was taken outside His consciousness, that was an expression of grace defining the very milliseconds of our existence. The definitions of the many shapes and forms of our continuous day to day living. The very meaning and truth of our unique and individual lives were woven together and defined by grace! And it is a Grace that is extended beyond death!!

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