All real living is meeting, said Martin Buber. Just how many people need to be there, for meeting
to happen? Where two or three are
gathered together in my name, said Jesus, there I am amongst them. When reading a book, there are always at
least two people meeting in relationship – the author and the reader – but also
all the people who have contributed to the setting down of, or the re-interpretation
of, the narrative. And, if but one human
stands on a cliff top, feet in the heather and springy turf, watching the sun set
behind piled-up clouds, terns and black-headed gulls wheeling by, with the sea
crashing its brilliant white surf down below, what meeting is it that is going
on there? – for meeting there most certainly is.
So we had a sparse meeting in August, summer season, with
absences and work commitments getting in the way of a bigger meeting; yet meet
we did. The topic was the stories we
tell ourselves and about ourselves, as part of who we are and how we know
ourselves. We had texts from Tolkien and Alan
Garner and we spent time in silent reflection; and felt all the better for it.
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