We didn’t go to the sea, Mrs Llew and I. We weren’t well enough. In some ways I’m not disappointed. It would have been a big expedition, for us. As we grow older our horizons shrink. But not the horizons of the mind. There is heaven to be discerned in a flower growing from an old stone wall, or in a grain of sand.
But as we look out on an increasingly reduced physical world, the past opens up. We look back on our passage through this Vale of Soul-Making, as John Keats called our lives here. Maybe we find new understanding: new healing of wounds we’ve lived with for ever.
And in doing so I ask: Whom can we blame for anything? People make mistakes. So do we. Unintentionally we harm them. And they us. If there is intentional harm what was it that made people such that they want to hurt others?
And yet I do recognise that we always have a choice. It’s a paradox.
But I have no craving to hurt anyone who has hurt me. The Easter story has the answer to all this.