The May blossom is fading: another year. There are many years to recall by now. Mrs Llew and I have been reading her diaries. She has kept diaries all her life. As we read, I remember other May times: other years when, returning from my work as a journalist, I walked home, late in the evening, while the elder trees in bloom scented the dusk.
That was 30 years ago. Here, today, in the market town where we live, the elder in some old hedges which have survived many changes over the years, is beginning to come into flower again.
High summer is approaching. Another high summer. The diaries record daily life over more than 50 years: endlessly busy, always dealing with the present moment, hopes, makings – and failings. Sadness too.
Again a year has passed. There is meaning to our lives, I’m sure, but it’s not an aggregate: a profit and loss account but is in every moment, every present moment. Whatever that leads to is not in an accounts sheet. There is another dimension to every moment of our lives, a point of intersection of the timeless with time, as T.S. Eliot said.
Maybe it could be seen, symbolically as a Cross: in which I hope we are all healed.