Rawdon Meeting House is only a stones throw from where I live; a mere evening dog-stroll. I can see from my windows the top most branches of the tall old trees that stand in the burial ground there.
I think Perkins my current dog, would know the way without any guidance particularly on fine summer evenings when from past experience we would guess that the occupants there would be camped out on the lawns with rugs and coffee, determined not to miss the promise of a glorious sunset.
I defy anyone not to feel a hint of magic on such evenings in such peaceful surroundings at such an hour; in fact I need to affirm that the beaker of coffee handed to me tasted somehow different - special ? ambrosial ?. But, sadly, I was assured by my friends that it was merely "instant".
Nevertheless anything could happen, one felt, in that ancient plot, with the Meeting House a dim and tranquil shape in the background and maybe an early star or two appearing to rival the glory that was rapidly advancing in the west. Shades of bygone Quakers treading their sedate way just as they had done generations ago along the path to Meeting ? "Well, why not ?" we said, and slightly intoxicated with the atmosphere we would go further and guess that despite demure exteriors there might be occasional tender glances exchanged from male to maid before they entered the Meeting House to their divided seatings ! Irreverently we wondered what might be the equivalent of a Quaker wink!
But alas, when it comes to Rawdon Meeting, I am a hopeless fantasist. For instance arriving on Sunday morning to Meeting all too often I may be the receptacle of various moods, none pertaining, I fear, to ‘having heart and mind
prepared’; yet I like to imagine that the old Meeting House having seen many generations of saints and sinners pass through its door would not condemn me
too harshly, it might even suggest that I get on inside and see what the silence does for me!
Good advice. I take it but once over the threshold and seated, my undisciplined mind is still restless. For instance, why should the headgear of an unsuspecting Friend momentarily rivet my attention? Or why should the labourious progress of a tiny insect spotted on the back of a seat transfix me similarly?. Will it reach its destination or will it loose its balance? "Nancy ! centre down" I tell myself.
Rawdon Meeting House is not a shut-in place. The old walls that encircle it are what I like to call Quakerly walls. They circle but they do not interrupt.
The wide expanse of sky-scape and the distant views of hill and dale are there unhindered for ones gaze. They are hospitable walls too. Brambles run riot over them in parts, squirrels wash their whiskers perched on them (I’ve seen them) and a bird alights and pipes a bar or two before taking off again.
Light space and freedom, room to look for one’s own bit of vision too
