Story Time - Part 2 - The Priest ✝️

So if you haven’t read Part 1 - “The Dogfish” - please do so here, dear reader, before continuing any further…

Read Here - Story Time - Part 1 - The Dogfish 🦈

For to read on without the context and the umbrella of nature’s wonder and its unique personality to hold us true would not only do this second part a disservice but also yourself.

For the friction, the catalyst, and the ridiculousness (in my view) of the priest might be missed without nature’s backdrop. A more dangerous outcome might indeed befall, baffle, and contort us - the seriousness of intelligence and the self-righteousness of dogma.

Selfish, in a way, is my desire to cast such an interaction in this light, but I forever and steadfastly seek to do what feels right for me; I did so then and continue to do so now.

Much to the irritation of the Priest.

But me, being me, I have gotten used to such things through the course of my life.

Let us pick up where we left off.

Or better yet…

Let me tell you about the time in between writing these “Stories”, from finishing Part 1 and tapping away at Part 2 today.

I didn’t expect it to affect me so much.

And like all good things, at least for me, that are on the very edge of emergence from my deepest parts into and through my conscious awareness and out into the outside world, it is somewhat hard for “me” to find the words.

Have you ever felt like this, dear reader?

That there is something inside you, raw and coarse at first, like primordial coal waiting to be fused in its structure into something crystalline and easily relatable, like a diamond. Something that eventually shines with a brightness that it would seem almost immoral just to keep it to yourself?

The most lingering, and indeed comforting, contemplation I’ve been left with from this process is what actually is the “me” I just referred to above. Who is it that writes these words? What is the balance between personality and godhead? And how do we ride the wave created by the equalising forces of forgetting & remembering in a way that becomes an act of reverence rather than a rehearsed and piously informed suffering.

In short…

Do we have to earn our divinity, or, and ever more subversively to the power structures that wish to license your sovereignty back to you, perhaps we are always welcome, always held, always free, even when we think we are not.

The price of entry for such splendour of the soul is something we will come back to later; it concerns the “me” I mentioned, how we might surf the wave of letting in and letting go and how the friction caused by such a rebellious way of being, in a world that wants you locked down, must not be confused with anything to do with you.

Leave all that to the fuss pots. That is totally their business.

Now…back to the tale in hand and the priest who initially, at least energetically, refused me entry.

A little raw-headed was I that morning as we gathered our things and deconstructed the base camp that we had created.

A little jaded, I might have been, the skies overcast with the grey wall that settles during a Cornish summer coastal morning sometimes, but my heart was satisfyingly full from the interaction (and splendour) of the encounter with the Dogfish the night before.

I remember really enjoying that morning's sausage sandwich very much indeed. There is nothing that hits the spot quite like camping food, and a sausage sandwich is my favourite. It is always so satisfying and grounding when that warm, steaming goodness hits a cold belly and warms you from the inside.

Walking back was a bit of a mission; it always was when we had been on a camping adventure back in those days - especially when the sanctuary of your childhood bedroom awaits, and the promise of a home-cooked meal later in the evening by your parents was about as far as your concerns had to stretch, the walk home (by contrast) seemed the hardest part!.

As we trudged along the coastal path back towards Hannafore (West Looe), you’ll be able to see from the picture above that Looe Island was gloriously glistening to our right, and as you walk that path, you come to the fenced off ruin of Lammana Chapel. It was once twinned with a Chapel on Looe Island - both dedicated to St. Michael.

It was from the path leading up that I heard the faintest voice, locked in a curious rhythm and projecting with intent. I instinctively drew nearer. As my brother and I approached, a figure became clear, adorned in a dark black, thick-looking habit (a monk’s hooded garment), holding a small book, clearly at home in the ruins, locked into this little ritual of his.

I began to approach the gate, my brother catching my eye - almost rolling his - as he had clocked I was about to initiate one of my usual side quests.

Now that half eye roll wasn’t unjustified, as my side quests often came with unintended side effects, time consumption, delay, confusion and sometimes the bitter taste that only the “spinners” of this world can leave, between their madness and half-truths.

I’ve always approached people with this sentiment in mind…even a broken clock is right twice a day. It has taken me many years to discern that sometimes the game ain’t worth the rope, and I have my brother's wisdom, guidance and patience with me to thank for learning this. He has always been able to see the tricksters very clearly, knowing who is the spider and who is the fly in any situation and that fascination is a poor substitute for the true communion of sincere reciprocated intimacy.

On this occasion, however, I could feel there was meaning on the other side of that gate for me.

I put my hand on the gate, my brother departed along the path, and I prepared to engage this fellow.

There was a natural pause in his incantations, which I had now recognised as Latin, and this Priest paused to take a breath as he looked out across the sea to Looe Island.

“What are you reading, may I ask?” I called out to him.

Before he looked up, he obviously knew I was already there, he began “Are you a priest?”, his eyes fixed on me as he finished, and a slight, curled, almost dismissive smile appeared on his lips.

“No” I replied.

“Then this will make no sense to you”. He seemed quite final with his reply and returned his gaze back to his book.

And without even really thinking about formulating any response, these words left my lips…

“Who are you, but a man, to tell another that the word of God is beyond him?”.

He sighed heavily and turned to me with a look of annoyance that I have seen many times over the years (especially from older "officiated" men) when the pious are abruptly snapped out of their rigidity by the youthful seeker. A broken clock being right twice a day indeed!.

He turns, annoyance has faded, and now looking a little stupefied, he says, “You had best come in then.”

I take a seat beside him, I notice the lush purple velvet of the lining inside his cloak, the golden brooches that adorn the lapels, hints of pageantry to his dress that suggest status and (in my judgement) fine leather gloves laid paired beside him, which, for me at least, communicate a detachment from the earthly.

We talked. And the way we talked was, I suppose, a bit like how a logger and a forest warden might talk, both concerned about trees but from different points of view, understanding and priority.

I asked him what he was reading, and he told me it was a set of psalms that I wouldn’t have any chance of finding in any usual bible. I asked him why he was reading them, and he told me that he had a personal interest and investment in the Chapel that once stood where we sat, and he saw it as part of his life's work to see it reinstated.

He told me that he was visiting England (he spoke with an English accent) from the Vatican and had made it part of his visit, alongside his duties, to go to places of significant interest to him, places, as he put it, “that held the energy and living memory of Jesus”. I actually enquired no further as to what he meant with this - because something registered within me, within my bones, and I knew exactly what he meant.

A Google search of the terms Looe and Jesus will lead you in the right direction, and believe me when I say it has been fascinating looking into this abandoned Chapel and the Cornish legends that surround it as I have written this piece.

He was well educated, well spoken, and well manicured. Yet, and you may have met individuals like this, there was a distinct edge to his energy. He was not someone you could push, and not a passive person. These traits, all of them I listed, I have come to learn, are neither good nor bad - they just are. Underneath his thick yet smooth woollen hooded habit, his priest's cossack dress looked immaculate.

The conversation and the questions then turned to me, most notably, what was it that drew me to interrupt him.

I told him that I am interested in God and the threads that bind us all, and am always curious about those who dedicate their lives and actions towards being of service to the life force that serves us all. I also said that I meant no rudeness, but I did not see it as an interruption, that it is fair game to acknowledge each other when 2 meet upon the trail.

I remember him saying something to me like “you don’t do very well with rules, do you?” in an almost sneering way. I replied along the lines of not really seeing the need for them, that if we are shown how to follow what it is in our hearts then the need for rules diminishes as we start to become the word of God in our actions, that we already know the path to take and it would be much better to not waste time building rules and enforcing them and rather spend our energy helping others to connect with what is inside them. Especially their hearts.

“And what of nature?” he said.

“What of it?” I replied.

“What place does nature hold in your view of God?”

I said that it was not separate, that not only are we part of it, but it is part of us and how I couldn’t understand there was even considered to be a division between us and nature, or nature and God. I went on to explain that I thought a lot of the problems we see in the world are because of these divisions.

Now the words he said next angered me; they were along the lines of this…

“You are a mystic. You understand something more than the average man about the way creation works, but like most mystics, you mistake the idea that this can be comprehended by your average person, and your naivety blinds you to this. You live your whole life like a poem written to God. One day, you will have to realise what the church is for, what it does. That is what I do, I make sure there is something there for the average man to connect to God with. I pick up what people like you cannot do”.

And I said…” What is it I cannot do?”

“Communicate to people their place within the order of things in a way which will not frighten them. People cannot handle the whole truth.” he replied.

“I disagree.” I said sharply.

“I know you do. Of course you do. If you didn’t, there would be no need for people like me...” he looked me in the eye when he said this and added, “We are two sides of the same coin”.

I have to admit, I was a little baffled. And again, in disagreement with his words and sentiment, I went to reply, but he got in there first with…

“We all play a part in the way things unfold and can only do what we ourselves feel called to do.”

I remember thinking to myself, I do not wish to live my life written as a poem TO God, as he said. I want to live my life like a poem written BY God.

It was obvious this interaction was over.

I said to him, “I will leave you to your Psalms and good luck with reinstating the Chapel.”

He replied to me…

“I will leave you to your nature and good luck with communicating your truth.”

Never before had I ended a chance meeting on such poetic and appropriate terms.

I closed the gate behind me, looking back upon the priest, I now couldn’t work out whether he was “real” or more like an apparition.

On the walk back to my car to find my brother and journey home, I noticed something in the sky which I had seen many times before and many times since. A lattice-like structure, incandescent and iridescent, almost rainbow-like, gently pulsing etherically though the clouded sky. Like a framework upon which reality is gently hung, it glistened, my ears and hairs prickling pleasantly just a little, as if my body was tuning electrically with the world around me, following the meeting I had just had.

As always, like I couldn’t stop it if I tried, my body, my very biology, was responding. Nature, it would seem, was all around me and within me, and if only for a couple of per cent more - I felt more so at home, and more welcome than ever in the life force, the green, the aliveness of this Earth we live in. It is very purposeful that I write “In” and not “On” - for we are life, we are nature, we are Creation itself, we cannot live “On” what we already are.

This makes me come back to what “ me “ is. Who is “I”? What is the balance between “Us” & “All”? I have no answers to these and am reminded of a nugget that came to me many years ago…the clue is in the word…QUESTion. The best questions are to be treated like quests; they need not have answers, and the very fact you're asking opens the door. Your very willingness to know creates the path before you step upon.

Now this next bit is embellishment. Well, sort of. As my brother did say this to me once (the bit about the good stuff), and it is something that I think of fondly and often. I’ll use it here in the story as it seems to just work so well for the purpose of illustrating what is real to me, what true order is and how laughing and not becoming too fascinated with the tales of the tricksters & “officials” of the world is just as important as sometimes learning from them - broken clock style.

I make it back to the car, load my gear into the boot (trunk), and my brother is waiting inside rolling a cigarette. I open the passenger door, he passes me the tobacco so I can make one for the journey home and asks me, “How was the Priest?” I reply, “He spoke to me like a teacher who can’t slow down to answer an interesting question because he has a class to teach and a coffee to drink”. My brother laughed and lit his cigarette before turning the key and starting the engine.

I turn around and take a look at the back seats…”Fuck me,” I say, “there’s so much mess in there!” The seats, the car floor, were scattered with leaves, twigs, and also sorts of matter you would expect from the car of a young gardener at the end of a week's work, plus camping trip debris.

He replied…

“Maybe Mess. But it’s not dirty…It’s only the Good Stuff.”

This was the most satisfying answer I had ever heard. It was indeed the Good Stuff. As usual, my brother's own rebuttal of rules other than his heart's own and his soul-led appreciation of all things green and tree was as grounding then as they are today.

The engine started, the stereo booting up, I rolled down my window, and so did he.

With the first few bars of Salva Mea by Faithless (Listen Here) coming through the speakers, I lit my cigarette and relaxed into the cruise home.

Thinking to myself…

Faithless had it right.

If God is anything, he is indeed a DJ.

And that the church I wish to build exists in the silent kinship of moments shared between brothers.

And sisters too.

Forever and Ever.

Amen.

My eyes softened into the horizon as I smiled and exhaled my smoke, watching it rush out of the open car window.

I thought about my Dad’s hands and their firm but gentle grip upon the dogfish's moist, mottled body.

I thought what a gift it is to touch life.

And what a gift it is for life to touch you.

A prayer in every interaction.

A prayer in every breath.

Long live the GREEN.

Something in me felt sorry for the priest.

There is a whole world he will never know.

The End.