Fresh Winds

A fresh wind gripped me and leaves swirled around my wheelchair, the rain held off, and surprisingly, it was relatively warm. The leaves on the ground spelt out clearly that autumn was truly here.

I have often said that autumn is my favourite season, and here in Salcombe, at least, I think my assertion is right. The wind here was the first of the big storms that lash our little town during Autumn and Winter.

Politically, the winds are blowing. At the time of writing the election in Israel is on a knife edge, and the consequences of the pandemic are blowing some politicians away, Bolsonaro for instance. Even a country like Denmark politically is in a state of flux.

Nothing remains static, and the winds are blowing the deck of cards up into the air. We all fear what hand we, are going, to be dealt. I don’t think even the bravest of fortune-tellers would dare to guess what fate befalls us. These strong winds would blow away even the most hardy of soothsayers, at the end of Batson Pier.

From my vantage point, the sky looks dark and slightly foreboding. Even the view of the church is difficult to see. Soon the Christmas lights will be on, and I will see the sign of the cross illuminated atop the church tower. I haven’t been in the Anglican Church for a long, long time. However, I have no excuse, as the delightful men’s shed have built a ramp that is finally fit for purpose. Thank you for your sterling work. I will trundle up it soon.

In Salcombe the Anglican Church is a hub of so many activities, and we have even been rebranded, we are now the seaside parish, with its own swish website. Who would have thought?

My mug of tea is running low, and I notice that some tea leaves have made a bid for freedom, escaping from the pyramid prison that held them. I won’t attempt to read the tea leaves. I will pass that by. The fresh winds are held at bay by some panes of glass. New ones, freshly fitted. Excellent.

One of the things I learnt pretty early, was how dangerous and destructive the tides, and the sea, can be. It was not that long ago that the stone pier at the bottom of the ferry steps vanished, not a stone was there to see. Gone, but not forgotten. The storm that night took away the work of clever victorian engineers. Their work cast asunder. Gone. I hope that those who have cast their small boats into the sea, are not washed away, becoming a statistic on a spreadsheet. Forgotten. However, everyone has a mother or a father. To them, their children’s fate will not easily be forgotten. Life is indeed cruel, like the sea.

At some point, I will rumble up the ramp to the church and light a candle, or more productively chant in front of my Gohonzon. Whatever you do to change your world, remember there are those out there risking their lives for a better life. Not all of them are in rubber boats, but some are in thrown into despair crippled by their inner demons. Waves of hopelessness casting them asunder. Life don’t talk to me about life…