It’s been raining every day for weeks. Catching a cold gave me an additional reason to stay indoors, but the other morning, in the bright lull after a heavy downpour, I ventured out for a couple of errands, taking the usual shortcut to the shops on Ledborough Road, through the derelict school yard and the magic fence. Well, it was magic once—you’d see a young man stride purposefully through the yard from its only gate, disappear from sight through a clump of bushes, then hey presto! He emerges on the other side of a tall chain-link fence, leaving it taut and intact. Nowadays nearly everyone, young or old, male or female, knows the trick. The sections of chain-link join in a T, and can be separated by leaning back till a gap appears. Now it has become permanently bellied-out; and though the grass and bushes have grown high this summer, the daily procession of footsteps has worn a bare path, easy to follow.
Still sniffling from my cold but feeling brighter in sympathy with the sky, I took the shortcut, dodged the puddle on the other side of the fence by treading the wobbly plank, careful not to let it splash my jeans. I try to love my immediate neighbourhood, but it takes effort. It’s alien, in several senses. I wonder if others see this place as I see it. But how do I see it? Home is home, but what do I call the expanse outside? Two years ago, I wrote a rhapsodic piece about my neighbourhood, Glimpsing Eternity, and said “Literally, my backyard is tiny. But in a wider sense my backyard is all around, encompassing my journey-zone. Journey comes from the French journée, day’s travel.” I thought of “day’s travel” in terms of travelling on foot. But you can’t cling to blessings like that forever.I wasn’t looking at my surroundings—my direct experience of “the world”—in the usual rational or materialistic way, according to the objective consensus of civilisation. If I were, I would remind myself yet again that the old school has been redeveloped as a community centre, which houses something called YouthSpace, and a nursery for working parents to drop off their pre-school children. It keeps its hedges clipped, the car park free of litter, the lawn trimmed, everything spick and span. The fenced-off land suffers from a temporary planning blight, whilst the architects have come and gone, lodging their proposals for redevelopment. Every six months, a team comes to clear the litter: old mattresses, furniture, anything and everything, in addition to the ubiquitous squashed drinks containers.
I’ve written lyrically of those discarded mattresses as well, not rejoicing in their presence of course but including them in a generous view, for example a year ago, in this post that I’ve just rechristened The sun’s blessing.You can’t hold on to yesterday’s blessings. The skies this summer have been heavy with rain, a blessing less easy to love. Still, every time I step out the front door, I view the world afresh, aware that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. How fresh does today’s air taste? Does the world smile? Never mind the weather, my interaction with the world depends on its state and mine. On this occasion the euphoric vision of my extended backyard could no longer hold. I felt myself clear-eyed. I saw signs but didn’t understand their language. Nor did I have words to express what I saw. A few days later, in the small hours, I found some words which seemed to fit. I said to myself that I had woken to a new dream. Still didn’t know what it could mean.
Later still, I saw that my Wayfarer’s Notes have been a flight from civilization, a way to ignore the social significance of the world around me. Dear reader, my neighbourhood is no gated community, protected from conflict. I’ve said often enough that it’s a peaceful valley, and so it is; that I’m grateful to be here, and so I am. But I saw that there is oppression here: not everyone can live free. Who are the oppressors, and who are the oppressed? They are not separate. The oppressor is the oppressed. Heavy chains are passed down through the generations, and borne willingly, as if inevitable. I don’t know of any simple way out.
When I realized this, I felt less oppressed by my head-cold, and the persistent rain, and the nameless unknown. I have woken up to a new dream, where my head is no longer stuck in the clouds, unaware of what goes on down here on the earth’s surface, in civilization. I hope the day will come when anyone who wishes can pass through the invisible fence, through the invisible gate.
