On Saturday, I took my mother and her good friend, Arthur, to a place called Walsingham in Norfolk. It was quite a long way, at least that’s what Lesley had said. I nodded when she said it. Not quite because I actually took in the information, but because the sentence bounced off my cerebellum and ricocheted around my skull before exiting the same ear it entered with a little whistle.

Still, I got up early as advised and then turned up at my mother's door and tooted as politely as I could which isn’t easy as you know. Ma and Arthur appeared from behind the door in an instant as if they had been waiting there in ambush and I had spooked them. My fingers, incidentally, were burning. I had burned my hand that morning by over filling the thermos flask. When I put the screw top on and twisted it, it squirted a boiling gout of water forcefully onto my fingers. I swore so much my karmic rating slid down the greasy pole of life and I ended up just below Attila the Hun on the day his horse took a dump in his hat.

Ma and Arthur got into the car and we set off; then stopped again a hundred yards around the corner. They wanted to buy some sandwiches. I was parked outside a hairdresser's shop, which was shut. There were three old ladies stood in the doorway with enough white hair between them to upholster the ample bottom of a polar bear, obviously waiting for it to open. They gossiped, and mouthed certain words to each other instead of saying them, and looked at me as if they thought I was selling drugs. By that I don’t mean as if they were looking worried or disapproving, but being pensioners and living in Moss Side (a notorious area of Manchester) they were wondering if I gave a discount for pensioners off the new organic crack cocaine range and if I had any in peppermint flavour.

Just a point: when reading the following, imagine my mother speaking with a thick Dublin accent and you'll get the full picture so to speak.

Ma and Arthur got back in the car. Arthur sat in the back and Ma got in the front so as best to offer me food. She asked if I’d had breakfast.
    ‘Yeah, I had some oat cakes and yoghurt,’ I said, setting off down the road.
    ‘Would you like a banana?’ she asked, offering something yellow and the size of a canoe.
    ‘No thanks,’ I said.
    ‘Have an apple then; these are lovely. Just look at the polish on that,’ she said, holding up a Braeburn.’
    I declined.
    ‘How about an orange? A lovely juicy orange?’
    No. She then went through the entire gross national produce of a small South American country; well, without the cocaine, naturally, she is after all, my mother. She’s spent just as much time warning me against the dangers of drugs as she has trying to get me to eat my weight in citrus fruit for breakfast.

After half an hour or so, we were deep in the countryside.
    ‘Are we there yet?’ Ma asked.
    ‘Eh… no,’ I replied.
    ‘And where are we going? Some kind of church?’
    'Yes. We are going to a place where there is a shrine to the Virgin Mary. Its called Our Lady of Walsingham.  Its very famous.  It's a very holy pilgrimage place and I thought you'd like that sort of thing.'
     I had a vague idea that the Virgin Mary had appeared (allegedly) to someone. I was a little sketchy on the details but what the hell. If the mother of God appeared to someone, it makes little difference if the person She appeared to was called Daphne, had a mole shaped like a walnut on her ass, and smelt like a kumquat. The important thing is the event itself. Ma is a devout catholic but without the desire to burn heretics and she had only three children instead of the requisite fourteen. I had told her where the place was, and what it was all about before, but she hadn’t paid that much attention, obviously. I think she had just been glad to be spending some time with me as I've been quite busy over the past few months and hadn’t spent that much time with her.

Arthur, who sat in the back, also calls my mother ‘Ma’,  though he is not my brother, at least not in the familial sense of the word. He is in fact slightly older than Ma and her best friend; has been for years; a lovely big dumpling of a man who has had a hard life but always manages to bounce back with a big belly laugh. He reminds me of the sort of black man who would evolve from a teddy bear if such a thing were possible. I was glad he had accepted the invitation to come along for the day. Lesley is usually the navigator for any long excursions but she was in Switzerland. Arthur had been a driver for about forty years and was a dab hand with a map if need be. I was however worried at the length of the trip. I didn’t want them to get bored, and also, what if I got them all the way to the place where we were going and they didn’t like it?

It started to seem like a bad idea to be going so far. After our initial bursts of conversation and laughter we lapsed into silence. I imagined Ma and Arthur thinking, ‘God, this is boring. I could be at home watching the wrestling’.
    Arthur spoke up from the back, and said, ‘young man. Put the radio on. 1000.4 FM. It’s my favourite radio station at this time of the morning.’
    Good, I thought. That will keep them occupied. I turned it on. The radio went, ‘ksszztttt by the first…ksshhhhhhh….station to bring…kshhhhhhhhhhhhh’ and then swallowed itself in harsh static, which was  like cleaning out your ears with sandpaper cotton buds.
    Damn

Ma doesn’t like mist. Fog makes her nervous, and so do ravines, and as for anything resembling a gully. Don’t even mention it. Large bodies of water are a bit of a worry too. I think this was after she discovered that the boat she came over from Ireland on wasn’t actually supported by wheels that extended down to the seabed. The only thing worse for her is fireworks. As we drove along up Woodhead pass on the way to Sheffield and the M1, I remembered that there were ravines and valleys with deep reservoirs to the right of the road. Ma could see them coming up and looked increasingly uncomfortable. This was going to be a disastrous trip. I actually considered turning back when I realised I would be driving her on a day trip through several miles of her own particular phobias. The deep water reservoirs and the valleys and gullies gathered themselves before us for an assault on her nerves, and then, as we rose up the hill road, a mist descended. Big, fat and foggy and falling out of the sky like a bad dream for ma. For fucks sake. All I needed at that point was for Arthur to start setting off cheap Chinese firecrackers on the back seat.

Thankfully, the mist obscured everything that would scare Ma, except for the mist itself. Left with only one phobia instead of three, she almost seemed relieved. I certainly was. We managed to get through the tricky terrain by the time the mist cleared and soon we were on the M1, cruising down the motorway to the sound of Tony Bennett on a tape. I had, in my right hand, the instructions for the route. Lesley had gotten them off for me from the internet. You can get a print out of any route to any destination you so desire, and then when you plough into the back of a truck because you are distracted by reading them, an ambulance can have you in casualty within ten minutes. Technology is wonderful.

At a travel lodge on the A17, I think it was, we pulled in for a cup of tea in the car park. Arthur got out of the car, and then reached into the back to get his coat. It was a warm day. Ma said,’ Arthur, you don’t need your coat. It’s not cold.’ He gave her a meaningful look and said, ‘I do ma. I need my coat, if you know what I mean, for I am going to make a visit to see a man about the facilities.’
    I think that meant he needed to visit the Gents.
    Ma watched him heading into the travel lodge, and said, ‘he may not dress like a lord, but Arthur is a real gentleman. He’s very particular you know’.
    What she meant, was that he carried around his own toilet roll in his coat.
    ‘Here,’ I said to Ma, ‘let me take a picture of you. The two of us actually, just stand here with me.’
    I put the camera on the roof of the car and set the timer. She was very impressed and asked, ‘does it take pictures by itself?’ She seemed surprised that I didn’t have one of those cameras that you use on a tripod with a large flash in one hand and a black cloth over my head. I told her it was automatic and to look at it and smile which she did. It flashed and I took it up to show her the preview of the picture on the reverse of the camera. She peered at it in wonder.
    ‘Oh that’s great. Marvellous isn’t it…’
    I magnified the image so she could see both our heads and she said, ‘bless us and save us. That’s such a great thing. It’s a lovely picture that…’ then she paused for a moment, still peering and said, ‘…which one’s me?’
    Somewhat taken aback by the question seeing as there were only two of us in the picture, I said, ‘well…eh…that one is me, the tall brown one. You gave birth to me forty years ago remember?’
    ‘Ah yeah,’ she said.
    I don’t blame her for the confusion.
    It was a long time ago after all.

Arthur came originally from Jamaica. He’s been a taxi driver, a bus driver and a coach driver in his time. I, myself, am intent on becoming a taxi driver now I have been made redundant. The experience Arthur had in the taxi trade is a little worrying. He’s been robbed, hijacked, stabbed and assaulted with various implements.

I actually went to court because of an incident outside my house with a taxi driver. It was late, past midnight one cold December night and I heard the heavy, dull clump of a taxi door shutting, and then shouting. I went to the door and looked out, and there were two men struggling on the ground. It seemed fairly obvious that the driver of the taxi had been set upon, as they say, and so I thought to go and help him out. I was wearing my pyjamas at the time, I should point this out. As you know, they don’t have a zip, not that you are acquainted with my particular pyjamas, I’m speaking generally here. I leapt down the two steps leading from my front door and when I hit the pavement, my… how do I say this…my gender specific appendage popped out, as if it too was wondering what all the fuss was about. I popped it back in. It was either that or run toward the fight with it flopping about in front of me, which can be off putting at the best of times; or I would've had to run with my hand over my crotch which, psychologically speaking is not the best way to enter a fight; besides, I didn’t want to run the risk of tripping over it as I ran.

So, I dashed back into the house, and ran upstairs. Lesley was sitting up in bed as I bounded into the room, preceded by my member. She looked at it and my obvious haste and said, ‘not now sweetheart. I’m knackered…and beside, I think somebody is in trouble outside.’
    ‘What? Oh, yes I know. Someone is attacking a taxi driver. Call the police!’ With that I grabbed the dressing gown off the back of the door and dashed back down the stairs and out the front door again, shoving my arms into the sleeves as I ran. It was only as I got half way toward the melee that I realised I had the wrong dressing gown. I had grabbed the one belonging to Lesley which is about ten sizes too small. It also had a hood which had folded itself on the inside and made me look like I had a hump.
    I reached the two men who were struggling on the ground with my arms caught behind my back in the sleeves.
    ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, with as much dignity as I could muster.
    The Asian shouted, ‘call the police. I’m a taxi driver and this man has attacked me!’
    ‘They're on the way I said, grabbing  the other guy. ‘Stop struggling mate, or you’re going to get hurt.’
    ‘Arggghhhhh!’ cried the taxi driver. The assailment had sunk his teeth into his arm.
    I put my fingertips on his eyelids and said, ‘let go of his arm or I’ll take your fucking eyes out,' hoping the threat would work.
    It didn’t.
    The driver screamed again, so I punched the guy in the face. Having decided that gouging his eye out  would have been a bit drastic. He still didn't let go, so  I punched him again and he let go and started shouting, ‘help! Racist attack!’ I was tempted to whack him a few more times for that accusation, but didn’t.
    ‘What happened?’ I asked the driver.
    ‘I dropped him off here with his friend. They tried to do a runner but I caught this one. I think he’s on drugs or something.’
    As it happened, we would find out later that he had been taking cocaine, according to the police report when the case went to court. You could smell the fact that he had obviously been drinking as well.
    By this time the guy was saying to me, ‘you fucking nigger. I’m going to fucking get you. I’m gonna burn your fucking house dowuhhh!’ He didn’t finish the sentence because my hand slipped and I accidentally punched him in the nuts to shut him up.
    A police car screeched to a halt and a female constable pounded over to us. Just at that moment the fool we were restraining decided he was peckish again and sunk his teeth back into the arm of the Asian. I tell you. There is nothing like having a few beers and then going out for a bite to eat and having an Indian, but not quite like this.
    The police woman didn’t mess about. She kicked him in the face, once, then twice, and he let go. Two other policemen turned up then and dragged him up and away.
    A different female constable took my statement. When it got to the bit about the police woman arriving, and I said, ‘then she kicked him in the face,’ she paused and then read back my statement; at least the last few lines anyway. She said, ‘then a female constable promptly arrived, and forcefully persuaded the assailant to desist from biting the Asian gentleman.’
    We agreed and that done, she asked, 'did you strike the man at any point?
    ‘No,’ I said, ‘but I did persuade him a few times.’
  
The journey to Walsingham went on and on. I was worried that Ma and Arthur would be bored by the trip. Especially seeing as, rather like a six year old, she kept asking 'are we there yet?’
    Finally I had to say, ‘there’s no point is asking for a good while yet, because it’s quite a way away yet.’
    ‘How far is it?’
    ‘Miles.’
    ‘When was the last time you were there?’
    ‘Years ago,’
    ‘Well what if you can’t find it again?’
    ‘Lesley printed off the directions for me,’ I said, handing her the sheets of paper.
    It was five pages long. She found this hilarious. When she stopped laughing she said, ‘Lesley will be back from Swaziland before we get there.’
    ‘It’s not Swaziland. It’s Switzerland,’ I said, rolling my eyes heavenward as one does with one's mother. Ma does this all the time, using the next best word instead of the actual word itself. I present, as evidence the following statements, all uttered by my mother in my presence over the years:

    ‘How much is this bastard chicken’ instead of, ‘how much is this basted chicken?’
    ‘Hello, I’m looking for a sweaty marine’ instead of, ‘hello; I’m looking for a sweet meringue.’
    ‘Lesley, are your parents Rastafarians like you?’ instead of, ‘Lesley, are your parents vegetarians like you?’
  
     All I can say is thank God I’m not prawn to that kind of grammatical shortcut. Thank the Lord, as well, for the farm shop we passed along the way. It was full of organic produce. I bought myself a bottle of strong wine; blueberry; Ma bought a cabbage, like you do, and Arthur stretched his legs. I was only vaguely embarrassed when ma asked the young lad on the counter about his eggs.
    ‘Excuse me,’ she said, holding up an egg, ‘do these chickens live around here?’
    ‘Pardon?’ said the boy.

After what felt like days, we arrived at Walsingham See video clip here . I looked around at all the priests and vicars in the car park, and the pensioners and thought I would be safe locking the laptop in the boot of the car. All three of us set off to the car park exit near an old building called the Shrine Shop. It was the shop of the Shrine; naturally. Before we reached it, I had a change of heart and ran back for the laptop. We joined the pilgrims heading toward the chapel grounds; they with their rosaries and prayer books, and me with my portable home entertainment system.  (You may recall this habit of mine as recounted  in Lesley and Geetan Go South - look under STUFF at the top of the page).

Even before we reached the entrance, a cool, creamy coloured façade at the front of the church, I felt a warm sense of peace. I was enthused with such a sense of calm I almost purred. It was, paradoxically, almost intoxicating, like bubbles of calm running through a rushing brook. For the first time, I felt that I understand why people stood before the barbarians and were cut down, standing serenely.   
     This must be the feeling a baby has in the arms of it's mother when all around there is chaos.
    There was little noise there. The occasional car drove past but then the noise was swallowed up by the silence that exuded from the heart of the shrine; sort of like a big pair of furry ear muffs for the soul.
    As we approached the entrance I noticed Ma had a plastic bag.
    ‘What’s in the bag? ‘I asked.
    ‘I took some of the rubbish out of your car,’ she said. Ma still hasn’t gotten out of the habit of tidying up after her boys; though I was glad to see she had refrained from putting up some curtains and ironing the dashboard. She’s very house proud and would like her sons to be the same. Unfortunately in my case, I’m rather untidy; not so much house proud as hovel proud when left to my own devices. If it were not for the fact that Lesley is very clean and tidy, the only way I would be able to find the fridge amongst my clutter, would be to take a compass bearing off the washing machine….wherever the hell that is.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said.
    She stopped a woman, and said, ‘’excuse me love, can you tell me where the bins are?’
    The woman looked somewhat bemused. I expect most visitors ask where the Shrine to Our Lady is. She pointed Ma in the correct direction and we entered the grounds at the side where she proceeded to hunt the bin down as a prelude to hunting down a toilet.
    I sat with Arthur awaiting her return. I noticed most of the pilgrims coming and going were either several years older than God, Africans or tootling along in wheelchairs that looked like the vehicular equivalent of NHS glasses.

    I was trying to keep my cool, objective head on, wanting to observe proceedings, but the atmosphere was seductively peaceful, slipping underneath the door my intellect had erected and snuggling up to my sense of the spiritual. The mood broke for a moment when, to my right, a wheelchair bound woman shot out of the door as if she had just been shot out of a cannon. She may not have been cured but at least she could do handbrakes turns and jump a bus or two if you gave her a ramp.
    She whizzed past leaving a smell of burning rubber in her wake, and a look on my face as if to say ‘who was that masked stranger?’
    Ma appeared; not miraculously I may add. She came down a short series of steps from the garden and asked if we were going to join her.
    Arthur and myself tagged along behind.

Inside the church was breathtakingly beautiful. It was an alchemical mix of candlelight and rich colours, sensuous curves of cloaks, carved by long dead artisans on the statues of the saints; incense insinuating the presence of the mystical; mixing with the scent of hot, melting, candle wax congealing.

Some of the imagery was quite graphic. By the door through which we entered, for example, was a statue of Mary. She was kneeling, arms open to embrace the suffering of the world, and she had a dagger through her heart; how succinct an image to portray the suffering of the Mother for her children? Ma reached out and tenderly touched the cold hand, placing her own hand on her heart.
    She understood.
    I framed her in the lens of my camera, and then stopped, seeing her looking up at the Divine Mother.
    I had intended to take a load of pictures, but suddenly felt that this was not something I wanted to objectify. There was something other than stone and glass and mortar here. I put the camera to one side for the moment, and looked up at the elegant cat stretch of the stone arches over the aisles.
    Hundreds of candles were flickering away.
    A lone male voice sang in Latin. The ancient mantras to God, be they Latin or the much older Sanskrit, are the only good way in which history repeats itself. The words are deep in the tongue and groove of the stonework here. Not seeing the supplicant, whose voice is deep with a subtle echo, made it seem as if the chapel itself were evoking the words out of the incense laden air.

Holy water; Ma wanted some; she collared a priest, pardon the pun and asked if he knew where it was kept. He said, 'certainly', and led the way to where the water was kept.
    ‘Do you have something to put it in?’ he asked, calling over his shoulder as he swished along in his cassock.
    ‘Ah, ‘ Ma said, ‘well you see now, I don’t. I was hoping you’d have one yourself.’
    The priest stopped, and turned around. He was thin, angular to a point in his face and fragile looking on the outside but from within he radiated a certain quality of strength and peace. He smiled, and said, ‘oh dear. Well, you will need a bottle. I’ll tell you what, there is a shop down the road, the Shrine Shop. You probably passed it on the way here. If one of you pops along and gets one, I’ll meet you back here in, say…’ he checked his watch, ‘… ten minutes? You’ll need to get a move on though, benediction starts in about fifteen.         Okay? Splendid!’
    He swished off again with a subtle rattle of rosary.

I popped off to the shop, jogging for a bit, until my loose change started to jog too, right out of my pockets like a fountain. I recovered what I could out of the gutter, and resumed my quest at a more dignified pace. I don’t know why, but I felt the need to smile at strangers. I think I frightened a few of the locals.

In the shop, at the till, was a rather formidable looking nun with chocolate coloured skin and a frizz of grey afro perking out from her headscarf.
    ‘Do you sell holy water bottles?’ I asked.
    ‘We do,’ she said, ‘but you can’t get holy water. The well is dry.’
    ‘Oh,’ I said, not wanting to contradict a nun. I didn’t know what to say.
    The priest had said he would get us some, so I persisted, feeling rather uncomfortable at disagreeing with a nun; it was a ridiculous feeling. I’m an adult and left religion behind a long time ago. I deliberately stayed in bed when Pope John Paul came to visit Ireland. As his helicopter passed over the block of flats in Ballymun where we lived at the time, I took two fingers out from under the blankets to give him, and religion, my own personal vote of non-confidence. Now, here I was, tongue tied in front of a woman, just because she wore a habit; just because she was a nun. I guess my Catholicism is in my bones; bugger; it's the theological equivalent of arthritis.
    I felt the need to give her an explanation for the fact that I still wanted the bottles, even though she said there was no holy water. I couldn’t contradict her outright. Nuns have friends in high places, if you know what I mean. I certainly didn’t want to be so rude as to give her the impression that I didn’t believe her. I also didn’t want to use the wrong terminology while I was speaking to her. I was raised a Catholic, and her denomination, as far as I knew, was Anglican. I didn’t want to be in the theological position of walking into a branch of Kentucky fried Chicken and asking for a Big Mac. People have wars over that kind of philosophical fuck up.
    ‘The…’ suddenly I didn’t know what to call the priest.
    Was he a priest or a vicar or a reverend?
    I opted for ‘the chap back in the, eh…’
    Once more I ground to a halt, wondering was it a chapel, church or shrine?
    The nun was looking at me as if she was about to get on her mobile to God and say, ‘hello?...yes, it’s me, Sister Assumpta, can I speak to Jesus? Hello? Jesus? Ah yes! Listen, do you still do miracles, only I have a retard in the shop, and I was wondering if you could sort his head out before I punch him?’
    I gathered my wits and ploughed on with, ‘the chap in the place down the road said he would get some for us.’
    ‘No,’ she said, kindly, but firmly. ‘It’s all gone. The public well is dry. We’ve been told to tell people this when they buy the bottles.’
    Shit!
    Oh! Pardon me…
    I had a sudden inspiration and blurted, ‘well, it’s for a good cause isn’t it. I think I’ll take two of your lovely bottles anyway.’
    Phew.
    She gave me the bottles, and I trotted back to meet up with the others, pausing only once… to chase my loose change again as it rolled along the cobbled street.

Ma was very happy with her holy water when she got it,  putting it in her bag as if they were two bottles of a fine vintage wine; or dare I say it, a couple of bottles of fine spirit.
    With Arthur in tow, she joined the congregation for the Benediction. I declined. I went out to the front of the chapel to start writing this.   
    I could hear the mass, right enough. I could hear the voices singing ‘Ave Maria.’ It was quite lovely and lifted my spirit to hear it like that, sitting as I was in the sunshine, tapping away on my laptop, surreptitiously having a cigarette.
    I was struck by how like spiritual muscles being flexed, hymns are; each voice like a tendon, pulling together for an upward movement of devotion in the heart. Even the odd out of tune voice was good. Normally it would grate on my musical sensibilities. As a regular church goer, I find the urge to turn around and slap the culprit with my hymn book almost irresistible. Of course, when I say regular, what I mean is once every ten years or so; sometimes not; may my mother pray for my soul.
    In fact, that is probably what is wrong with the world.
    Nobody can get a word in edgeways.
    But that's the love of a mother for you.
With that in mind I went in for the end of the mass, and left the cooing wood pigeons to their cooing and wooing, and the slow methodical clank of the rope that held the chapel flag to the pole would have to flutter without me.

Ma’s face after the Benediction was something to see. She reminded me of a child, in the purity of her happiness. It made me wonder how I turned into such a cynical bastard. Perhaps I should have joined them for the whole of the Benediction, and knelt before the altar?
    Benediction; I’ve always found it to be such a beautiful word, as well as a beautiful act.
    For myself though, I feel that Benediction resides in the heart and comes not from any outside agency. God doesn’t hold any grudges; no hard feelings; despite the odd crucifixion. I feel what a lot of people get from the Benediction in a mass, is the strength to bear their particular cross.
   
Sin, for want of a better word, cannot enter the heart, and when you are centred in the heart, the strongest, and yet the most exquisitely fragile point of consciousness, your sins are not just forgiven, but understood, and that in itself, is the root of forgiveness.

Hmmmm. I just read that back to myself and I sound like a God Botherer, but believe me, I'm not. Take my word for it, I'll be the first to burn when Judgement Day comes around for the heathen amongst us. In fact, I've got heartburn now which, for all I know, may be just the pilot light kicking into action before I disappear in a puff of smoke.

Anyway, let's crack on shall we?

I needed to take a piss. I did so, and was rather surprised at what I found in the gents. You know how, or perhaps not, in the urinals, little yellow blocks of a disinfectant substance, are placed in the interest of hygiene? Well, it looked as if someone had dropped an entire tin of pineapple chunks in the receptacle. I had to take a picture, as you can see (right).

Thank the Lord nobody came in.

Oh, and I forgot to say, there was a little building, outside the chapel, where we found a saint called Doloroso. This, if I’m not mistaken, is the same name my mother's is derived from: Delores. It was the icing on her pilgrimage cake. I took a picture of her, with her hand on the heart of the saint. She really does look thrilled, too. Though in one of the photographs she looks as if she is about to make off with the cross and the security camera has caught her red handed.

It was time to go, but first, I had one more thing to do. I wanted to show Ma the heart of the church. There is a little chapel within the church, where there is a statue of the Virgin Mary. This I believe is the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. I walked into the shrine through the doorway, to be embraced by the mute lighting and the feeling of hushed intimacy.
    I immediately wanted to cry.
  I wanted to curl up, become small, small enough to be held in Her outstretched hand, and sob my heart out.
    I just swallowed it all back and took a deep breath…
    Deep in the well of my heart, something stirred.

It was in this sacred place that I lit a candle for Lesley’s brother, Stephen Landells. He had died, not so long ago. The heart remains tender for certain people, no matter how long ago they'd left us. It literally is the impression they make upon us, how they have moulded themselves in us. They remain, like a candle in the cave of the heart.

     I took up a candle, with Stephen in my heart, and lit it from one of the others. There were hundreds, glowing warmly, silently present with their illumination, full of flickering life. How appropriate, I thought, the way in which you light one candle from the flame of another; it seemed to show, somehow, the infectious nature of the human spirit; how goodness is passed on.   
    For a moment, I held the candle in my hand and wondered where in the hierarchy of candles to put it. Then I saw a gap in the centre and knew that was the right place. He was a warm soul and people were drawn to him for that, so where better for his candle to be placed  than in the midst of all the others.
    I knelt before the statue and prayed, offering up my heart to the silence place between thought and breath, where perhaps God wonders, just what all the fuss is about.
    Everything is, after all, just as it should be.

Another little miracle took us home; the internal combustion engine. Back to Manchester we went. After all my worry earlier, it had turned into a fine day; Arthur had enjoyed the day out; I had quite enjoyed myself and gone to certain spaces inside myself, that one should commune with on occasion; and Ma had stood at the feet of Our Lady and prayed for her three sons; she was happy.

She had her holy water, tucked into her bag.

And if I may say so, she had the finest looking cabbage I have ever seen in my life.


Geetan
Sept
2006

Peace