There are cyclamen growing wild beneath the trees and the canopy of the forest begins to turn from deep green to burnished red and gold. It is misty in the morning and at twilight, when a parliament of owls begins to hoot. Of the real Parliament and the busy world, I am blissfully ignorant. I am in the depths of the New Forest in southern England and I am preaching a retreat to a community of Dominican contemplatives.
This feels a little like being asked to take spiritual coals to Newcastle, or, as I tell them, like being a GP invited to address a conference of consultants on their specialisation. And then I remember that Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple would be all for this. I am sure in one of the books Mrs Somebody’s little Timmy was given a lot of expensive ointment for a rare skin condition by a leading dermatologist to absolutely no avail, until Miss Marple’s own doddery GP correctly diagnosed measles. I am hoping that my lack of specialist knowledge of contemplative life may serve to give me a different perspective that will be of some use to someone.
