George Herbert at Bemerton

A kind of resolution seems to have been achieved in the (retrospective) portrait of the 17th century poet and cleric, George Herbert, Vicar of Bemerton, near Salisbury. George Herbert, a brilliant scholar and orator, rejected high office in the Church of England to serve as a country parson in an obscure parish where he could live simply and cultivate his literary gifts. Dyce visited his parsonage and painted his garden.

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Collated by Janet Briggs

The Unitarian Women’s League’s adoption of CHASTE for 2007-2008 is most appropriate in the year when we are commemorating the 200^th. anniversary of the abolition of the transatlantic trade in slaves. CHASTE’S slogan is ‘Breaking a contemporary slave trade’

CHASTE is developing safe housing options and direct counselling support for survivors in the UK. Funds raised by the U.W.L. will support this work. As important, is the work being done in raising social awareness. We can support them by informing ourselves and others about what happens to young women, children and young men caught up in the ordeal of sex-trafficking, and lobbying government at all levels.

A recent report estimated that over 2,000 young women are trafficked into Britain every year. The UN estimates that 900,000 people are trafficked across Europe, Africa and Asia annually. The trade is fanned by persistent demand for sexual services, by international crime and new technologies. CHASTE is appealing for sanctuary households to be set up where survivors (who may have been kidnapped, imprisoned and repeatedly raped) can be sheltered for a month or two, instead of being deported at once, and for Churches to speak out against the international conditions which sustain this trade.

The Unitarian Women’s Group is adopting Sex Trafficking as their theme and are delighted to be working side by side with the U.W.L.

Why CHASTE?

When the ancient abbeys and religious houses were founded, CHASTITY was the means through which women were able to establish an identity independent of marriage or sexual relationship with men. Today there are many other means through which women can establish autonomy and be respected for what they bring as human beings to this world. Sex-trafficking and all forms of prostitution undermine this hard-won respect of women’s integrity. CHASTE reminds us that no-one is be enslaved, whether men, women or children. All are equal before God.

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"TOWARDS BELOVED COMMUNITY"

By Revd. Cathal Courtney

reviewed by Bill Stephen

After the recent spate of books eagerly anticipating the demise of religion – particularly Christianity – in the Western democracies, it is refreshing to encounter a work which not only envisages a positive future for liberal religion in the 21^st century but also suggests an agenda to accomplish it. In this original and unconventional approach to religious discussion, Cal Courtney identifies the nature and source of our current spiritual malaise, accounts for the failure of religious institutions to deal satisfactorily with it and demonstrates how it may be cured by the creation of ‘The Beloved Community’.

Secularism, individualism and materialism dominate our culture, not only stifling our spirituality but also distorting our humanity. Cal Courtney identifies the irresistible rise of rationalism in the 18^th. century and the rapid expansion of technology, industrialisation and commercialism in the 19^th and 20^th century (the ‘Modern Age’) as the principal causes of the unhappiness, confusion about personal identity, self-doubt and the anxiety that follows uncertainty suffered by so many of us in the 21^st century (the ‘Post-modern’ Age). While acknowledging fully the incalculable benefits bestowed upon us by reason and science, he argues that their success has encouraged us to overlook other sources of truth such as religious, mythic, intuitive, emotional and artistic which are not susceptible to the application of logic but which have their own validity and a role to play in our perception of our world.

An essential feature of Cal Courtney’s religious landscape is ‘mystery’, this inexplicable awareness of being in touch with the one-ness of all things, the intuition that there exists a profound connectedness shared by the whole of creation, linking human beings one to another, but also to everything else in the universe. Existence, in all its multifarious manifestations and our human experience of it, is an extraordinary complex process, much of it beyond our understanding, and dogmatic religions’ attempts to explain it in terms of doctrinal belief systems, simplify it by ignoring whole swathes of human experience. So much of human life is left outside these systems that religion loses its credibility and falls into disrepute. Acknowledging the importance of mystery and understanding how it may influence human relationships, therefore, is the principal aim of ‘The Beloved Community’.

Revelation of the divine is the essential source of religion, and in the case of Christianity is provided by the Old and New Testaments. However, Cal Courtney argues that our most immediate source of divine revelation is the experience of human beings. Our awareness of our own reaction to our day-to-day living, that of other people and of the on-going life of the planet all reveal to us aspects of that divine mystery that provides us with the content of our spiritual experience.

The major ethical problem of our age is how to reconcile universal truths with individualism, The Enlightenment rationalists, in wresting moral authority from the hands of the godhead and depositing it categorically on the shoulders of humanity, seemed to suggest that universal ethical truths were a thing of the past and that each individual now had the responsibility of setting his/her own standards with little reference to other people. This has led to a degree of moral confusion welcomed by some but deplored by many as an additional personal anxiety and an abuse of community cohesion. ‘The Beloved Community’, however, may be able to achieve a reconciliation between these opposing positions. In acknowledging that we share a common destiny which is ultimately beyond our comprehension – the mystery – we have the opportunity to live our lives accordingly. This implies that we recognise that none of us is perfect and that we are all trying to cope with life as best we can. Our many imperfections are seen not as aberrations from the normal but as a feature of normal life. Sharing, thus, a mutual understanding and sympathy, and motivated by a desire to agree, we may embark upon the difficult project of establishing universal ethical truths. Mutual sympathy and understanding, we may also define as love, the overarching principle and motivating force of ‘The Beloved Community’.

Although "Towards the Beloved Community" is well informed and well argued, it reads as prophecy rather than dialectic, since its core material emerges largely from the author’s personal experience of living in the ‘post-modern’ age. Cal Courtney is a visionary who has a firm grasp of the complexities and perversities of human nature, but who by accepting and loving people as they are, and offering them trust and reassurance, envisages an environment where they may meet, talk and act in a spirit of mutual cooperation and respect. Given the ego-centric behaviour of most of us, this may seem an idealistic objective, an aspiration rather than a practical possibility. However, visions capable of transforming society for the better are worthy of effort and commitment, and Cal Courtney offers his vision of the ‘Beloved Community’ as the inspiration for a reinvigorated liberal religion. By working towards the ‘Beloved Community’ liberal religion gives itself a clearly defined role which is not only distinct from traditionalist attitudes but also distances itself from the individualism of ‘New Age’ spirituality.

The personality that emerges from this book is engaging, optimistic and warm-hearted. There is a disarming open-ness of approach that is refreshing in theological discussion. The style is lively, brisk and enthusiastic, sweeping us unresistingly towards the gates of the ‘Beloved Community’.

AN AFRICAN EXPERIENCE

by John Robinson

In a lecture on Happiness given at the University of Birmingham just a few years before his death in 2004, Sir Peter Ustinov commented thus: "if one can take a sensuous pleasure in the sounds and tastes and sights and odours which one has on file in the treasury of over half a life time, then I don't know what more one has any right to ask". For Margaret and I, life's sensuous pleasures were enriched enormously by our recent holiday in South Africa and Zambia. In searching for a one-line description of the beauty of so much of what we saw, my mind kept telling me that this surely must be a little bit of heaven here on earth. Yet, I have no real concept of heaven, other than the portrayal of it as a place or state of joy and happiness. Neither have I any concept of hell, other than the idea that it is the opposite of heaven, yet on our holiday we also saw numerous examples of what seemed to be best described as hell on earth. These extremes came pouring in on our senses with such speed, I found myself continuously caught up in an emotional roller-coaster. To witness at close range the beauty and elegance of wild animals free to roam in Mala-Mala Game Reserve and Kruger National Park, a land area the size of Wales, and then in a matter of days to peer into the 2 x 2 metre cell where, for 27 years Nelson Mandela was imprisoned, on Robben Island, brought my concept of heaven and hell into close juxtaposition in a way that I had never witnessed before. I had been brought up seeing wild animals imprisoned in cages while man was free to roam. As I pondered on the irony of this role reversal, I was engulfed by sadness for, in neither case, was the incarceration justified. Yet, when released, Mandela expressed no anger or bitterness. By forgiving those who were responsible for his suffering he won respect and admiration, brought an end to apartheid and now, in his late 80s, is striving with all his power and influence to alleviate the poverty that still blights the indigenous peoples of South Africa. He emerged from his hell-on-earth experience with heaven-like attributes. He, like Jesus, came through his 'crucifixion' and returned to his people to inspire and give hope. Continuing with the biblical analogy, We were privileged to meet and talk to one of Mandela's disciples who, for 18 years, was also incarcerated in Robben Island prison. His job now is showing visitors around the prison. He too harbours no anger or bitterness, rather he exudes tolerance and forgiveness. Despite the very poor conditions in which people live in the townships this ethos of forgiveness prevails there too. Our guide on a tour of one of these townships in Cape Town revealed the reasoning behind their lack of bitterness when he put it this way: "The longer we take to forgive the longer we remain slaves".

At that point I realised that herein lies a lesson for us all; we don't just need to forgive in order to end torture and harassment of us by others, we also need to forgive in order to remove the torture and torment from within ourselves. That, to me, is the real reason behind Nelson Mandela's success. In his forgiving he put the hell of his incarceration on Robben Island behind him and moved on.

Had we not visited Robben Island and had we not seen the townships and squatter camps, which incidentally, numerous visitors ignore, we could have come away from Cape Town believing all of it is heaven on earth. The top of Table Mountain is best described as a massive natural rock garden, in which small beautifully-shaped and coloured wild birds flit in and out I of the equally beautiful blossoms of the shrubs. It is an elevated Garden of Eden with the added view of the 12 Apostle peaks on one side and, on the other, not surprisingly in a city of such contrasts, Devil's peak and, in the distance beyond, Robben Island. And then there is the peace and tranquility of sunset at the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront where we stayed and where the seals intermingled their cavorting in the water with lying close by on the boardwalks in that posture of relaxation that comes so naturally to them.

The coastal route drive from Cape Town to Cape Point and Cape of Good Hope brings its own unique mix of sensations, heightened by the anticipation that one is about to stand at the most southerly tip of Africa; well not quite for that is Cape Aqulhus which is not on the tourist route. In addition to the beauty of the beaches and the surf beyond, there is the drive along the cliff face of Chapman's Peak with a vertical rise of 1500 feet on the one side and, on the other, a drop of 500 feet to the swirling Atlantic below. There is also the drive through the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve, home of the small antelopes and chacma baboons, before the short funicular railway trip up to Cape Point. From here the view is spectacular both to the naked eye and, with the aid of binoculars, which allow one to peer down the precipitous drop of a thousand feet to the rocky beach below in the hope of catching a glimpse of the cape penguins. But our snap shots of our all-too-brief stay in South Africa had many other moments to savour. The 5am sunrises over Durban; the drive along the famous and beautiful Garden Route running across the bottom of the Southern Cape from Port Elizabeth in the West to Mossel Bay in the East, and taking in indigenous forests, beaches, lakes, lagoons, rivers and mountains. Here, I would willingly have extended our en route stop over in Wilderness to the biblical 40 days and 40 nights but not of course, without food or water!

And then there are the Cango Caves that have taken hundreds of thousands of years to form; so difficult to capture by camera but so amazing in formation and colour and so precious that one is forbidden from touching lest their intricate chemistry is catered by human sweat; should we even be breathing I wondered! Well maybe, but gently! The names of some of the formations, for example, the cathedral organ pipes and the nativity scene, tell their own story of the awe and reverence that they convey. Such a scene of silent beauty could never however obliterate fro6n my imagination the horrors of the many battles fought on South African soil. These are recorded across the country in impressive monuments and statues and were particularly well described and animated by our tour guide. I will remind you of just one in order to recall the horror. It is the changing of the name of the Ncome River to Blood River following the battle between the Voortrekkers and Zulus in 1838 in which not a single Voortrekker died but over 3000 Zulus were killed, their blood turning the flowing water to red; a massacre, yes; and hell-on-earth as well!

Enough on South Africa, it is now on to Zambia or more precisely the town of Livingstone, the Zambezi River and the Victoria Falls. We are now in a part of Africa where, from a religious perspective, the link with Scotland is world renowned. I am referring of course to David Livingstone, the Scottish doctor, explorer, missionary and antislavery activist, who discovered the Victoria Falls and after whom the nearby town of Livingstone is named.

Choosing to stay near Livingstone, at Songwe Point village on the banks of the Zambezi gorge, gave us an insight into life in rural Zambia, and I suspect many other rural areas of Africa, that few visitors see. We may have forfeited almost all of the luxuries of the neighbouring Western-style Hotels, but for me it was the nearest I will ever get to heaven. There was so much that was unique and special. Sundown round the log fire on tile edge of the Zambezi gorge; the advancing darkness and the light of the rising moon reflecting on the water flowing down the canyon; the ten different African dishes specially prepared for our evening meal; the after dinner singing and dancing of the staff to live drumbeat music and then, the party over, the quiet walk back along the hurricane-lamp-lit path to our bed in the openness of a rondavel and time to savour the peace and tranquility of an African night in which the water of the mighty Zambezi, on its way to Mozambique and the Indian Ocean beyond, seemed to be the only bit of creation in a hurry. But there was much more to stir the emotions, not least the power and noise of the Victoria Falls where over 1 million litres per second of vertically falling water is haloed above by the beauty of that biblical symbol of promise, the rainbow, created by the sun shining on the rising spray of the falling water. I doubt if there is anything else on earth more humbling and more ego-diminishing than the Victoria Falls; and to realise that we were seeing them much the same as they must have been when Livingstone discovered them in 1855, unspoiled by any of the moneymaking trappings that are so much a part of today's tourist industry elsewhere.

But intertwined with nature's beauty and its awe-inspiring scenes, there is well-hidden human suffering nearby that only comes to light when one gets close to the village families. Mingling, as we did with them, and seeing the bright-eyed well-dressed children returning from school, keen to show us their exercise books and what they were learning, it was both difficult and heart-breaking to accept that for the 1000 or so people in the village there are over 100 orphaned children through AIDS. Much hope is being placed on a new health centre, now being built, but obviously long overdue, for even pregnancy and child birth still carry an unacceptably-high risk of death for mothers as well as babies. As for malaria, sporadic bouts of fever are part of life. But even with available modern medicines there can be obstacles to their use as witchcraft practices still exist amongst some of the older generation. Nonetheless, with three Christian Churches in the village there can be no doubting the impact of Livingstone's religious legacy.

At the Livingstone Museum in the town itself, where many of Livingstone's personal possessions, most notably items of clothing, his medical kit and his hand-written letters are on display, there is a heightening of the senses to the pain and suffering that he too endured; mauled by a lion, weakened by fever and dysentery and his life threatened by infuriated native Africans along the banks of the Zambezi are just a few examples. In his own account of this latter incident he records that, with Bible in hand, he turned and said "See, 0 Lord how they rise up against me as they did to Thy Son". But in Livingstone Museum, a small uncaptioned photograph provides, for me, the most powerful and poignant illustration of our true legacy to Africa. It is a photograph of a white man holding the Bible in one hand and a gun in the other. It is a picture that paints far, far more than a thousand words!

If, despite my limited literary ability, I have managed, to portray the idea that our brief holiday in South Africa and Zambia was life-enhancing far beyond anything I had experienced before, then I am pleased. Like many others, I feel that our spirituality is enriched by our knowledge of, and our love for, nature. The beauty and wonder of what we saw and heard added a new dimension to that enrichment. But so too did the ugliness, the injustice and the suffering. The Jesus-like attributes of David Livingstone, Nelson Mandela and the unsung heroes, those in the townships and at Songwe Point village who, without bitterness or anger, are dealing with their own .crucifixion. in the form of disease and poverty, are surely powerful examples of what true religion is all about.

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REMEMBER TO LIVE

Reflections on "One Unknown" by Gill Hicks.

A young woman dashed into Kings Cross Underground Station and tried to worm her way through the palisade of bodies blocking her route to the platform. Of slight build and no more than five feet tall, forcing her way through the ruck of rush hour commuters was difficult. She arrived on the platform in time to see her train depart. A frown creased her forehead. Her lips were pursed She was vexed and worried. She tapped her elegantly shod toe impatiently as the seconds dragged by. At last the next train rattled up to the platform. As soon as the doors slid apart she darted on board. The compartment was crowded. There would be no chance of a seat. She was thrown against a tall man standing behind her as the train jerked into motion again. She would be late, certainly fifteen minutes, perhaps even twenty. She started to reschedule her day as the train slipped into the tunnel. She'd have to cancel one meeting to leave time to prepare for the council meeting the afternoon. Which should she cancel?

Suddenly, everything disappeared. The compartment, the passengers, even the light all disappeared. She was falling through a black nothingness. She couldn't feel, see or hear anything. She couldn't breathe. She was certain she was dying. She was having a heart attack. She kept falling, falling endlessly through, hot, choking, clinging darkness.Then all motion stopped. She was numb all over. She had lost contact with her arms and legs, as if they were now detached from her body. Was this death? Suddenly, awareness returned. She was at the bottom of a black pit surrounded by shrieking and screaming voices. Above her and around her raged a vortex of movement and din. People were lying on her, walking on her, stumbling against her in the darkness. She tried to stand but had no control of her legs. There was someone beside her. She called out for help as loudly as she could. She fainted. When she came to she was lying on a bench. The din had subsided. The air was acrid, heavy with the smell of burning plastic and gritty on her lips and tongue. A grey light now filtered through the dust and smoke from the tunnel wall. She could see bodies lying every where, still and silent. Then she caught sight of her legs. They had been shattered, stripped of skin and flesh, the bones smashed and blood flowing from the arteries. Every fibre in her body screamed in panic. She was staring death in the face. She told herself she had to remain calm, to control her racing heart and restrict the flow of blood. She had to become entirely objective, to see herself as someone else and to cope with the situation rationally and unemotionally. With incredible determination she slowly undid the scarf from around her neck, ripped it in two using her teeth and used each piece as a tourniquet for her injured legs. She was very weak and desperately wanted to fall asleep but she forced herself to remain awake. She concentrated on her breathing, slowing each breath, counting each one out and each one in. She looked at her watch, willing the rescuers to arrive, now or in a minute from now or quite soon. Two voices in her head were battling for control, one lulling her to sleep, slip away quietly, peacefully, the other stridently ordering her to stay awake and fight for life. Then another voice, a stranger's saying, 'Priority one.' The rescuers had arrived. 'My name is Gill,' she said, before falling into unconsciousness as they lifted her out of the wrecked compartment and into the tunnel.

The journey to the surface was slow and hazardous as she drifted in and out of consciousness. By the time she arrived at St. Thomas's hospital she had lost 80% of her blood and her heart had stopped beating three times. She was operated upon immediately. Her legs were so severely injured they had to be amputated, and for the next five days she hovered between life and death, one of the many casualties of the London suicide bombers on 7th. July, 2005. When first admitted to hospital, she had no identification and so she was labelled 'One unknown'. Her fiance with whom she shared a house in North London, her work colleagues and friends were frantic with worry, as hour after hour, they tried to discover what had happened to her. About midnight, her identity was at last established. She was Gill Hicks an executive of the British Design Council.

Gill is an Australian who had come to London some fifteen years earlier to make her fortune. She is bright, energetic, self-confident, forceful, sociable and quickly made her mark in journalism and publishing. Before July 2005, she lived a hectic, high pressure life. She was deeply committed to her job, worked long hours, had a wide social circle among architects, artists and designers, entertained, visited and dined out with friends went to exhibitions and shows. She was also planning her wedding with her fiance, a lecturer at the Royal College of Art. She imbibed gallons of coffee, smoked ten cigars a day and enjoyed a bottle of wine. Germaine Lindsay, the nineteen-year-old islamisist, who detonated his bomb not three yards from Gill in that crowded underground train, ended that life for ever.

On July 7th Gill embarked on life Number Two, as she calls it, based upon a totally different set of priorities.

In a book entitled 'One Unknown', published a few weeks ago, Gill recounts in detail her experience of the bombing and how it has completely changed her life. 'One Unknown', however, is more than an autobiography, it is clearly a book with a mission. It is intended to transform lives. Having survived against all the odds, Gill has uncovered what she considers to be the foundation of a happy and meaningful life and is committed to sharing her discovery with anyone who cares to read her work. Her testimony, her evidence, is provided by her hospital experiences which are carefully edited to emphasise the positive facets and sustain her argument.

Gill Hicks describes herself as a survivor. She loves life and from the moment she realised she had a fighting chance of recovering from her injuries she committed herself to becoming an independent person again, in charge of her own destiny and capable of living a useful and meaningful life. She wanted to live in such a way that she would make a difference, to add to the sum of buman happiness.

From tjIe start of her treatment she was positive, eager to cooperate, cheerful, grateful, making friends with all the medical and anciliary hospital staff, including the assistants in the hospital shop and cafe. She had a sunny temperament, laughed a lot, made jolies, occasionally played the fool and was rewarding to work with.

She regarded all the people who were treating her as her 'hospital family' and they bc,:ame close friends of her fiance and her brother who arrived with his wife and children from South Australia to spend as much time as they could eith her every day.

As soon as she was fit enough she made contact with everyone who had helped in her rescue and recovery, the policemen, the firemen, the ambulance drivers, the paramedics, doctors, nurses and physiotherapists to thank them for their selfless dedication. . She marvelled at how they persisted in their efforts to save her life when all hope of saving her seemed utterly forlorn. They became her friends. She invited them to parties, receptions, commemorative services and occasions and to her wedding.

She suffered greatly: her wounds were painful and healed very slowly; inevitably there were reverses, disappointments, periods of depression and tears as she contemplated a life without her legs. She admits to these feelings but refuses to dwell upon them preferring to emphasise positive experiences, the love, the care, the friendship, the compassion arid the humanity of everyone she encountered. Perhaps this omission is ailing in her account. Despair is an inevitable and valid response to such a traumatic experience; to describe it is not to display self pity nor is to acknowledge it a sign of weakness. Pain, despondency, frustration are signs of neither defeatism nor ingratitude nor a betrayal of all the care that has been exercised but the significant accompaniments of personal catastrophe. As such, they may be described without fear of diluting the positive message and indeed may emphasise it by showing just how much misery and heart-break had to be absorbed in order to appear cheerful and optimistic.

The international reaction to Gill's survival was typica~ of our mediadominate era. As soon as she was out of danger she became a celebrity. The BBC made several documentary programmes charting her recovery. Her photograph appeared on the front pages of newspapers. She was interviewed on radio, television and by magazines. Her wedding achieved world-wide exposure. The Prime Ministers of Australia and South Australia, and The Australian High Commissioner visited her in hospital and when she went home to visit relatives in Adelaide she was the guest of the South Australian Governor. During a stop-over in Singapore she was celebrated in the newspapers and received VIP treatment. She was invited to High Grove by the Prince of Wales and attended a private function at Buckingham Palace at the Queen's personal invitation. She had become a symbol of survival in the face of adversity but also of defiance in the face of terrorism. She was an innocent victim of mindless violence, one of many millions in our war-torn world, a hostage of other people's hatred and despair, but courage determination and sheer love of life were bringing her through it all.

Her smiling, relaxed resilience not only denied the terror strategy of the bomber but also seemed to foreshadow its ultimate defeat.

She has very little to say, less than a page of her book, about that young man who destroyed her first life, Gervaise Lindsey, the suicide bomber. She had never met him, yet he chose her as a target. Why did he select her as his enemy? Why did he hate her so much? What were his motivations? Desperate to understand him, to enter into his mind, to see the world as he saw it, she read all she could about him and studied his photograph in the press, seeking an answer to these questions and finding none. She could not forgive his action and since she could not meet him face to face to look into his eyes and see his reaction to her, had not the means of forgiving him. His action seemed meaningless. How can you crave another's understanding if you kill, that person without ever speaking to him or her? In the end, she says, she feels very little for him. She certainly does not hate him. To do so would poison her own life and hand him a kind of victory.

She would cheerfully turn the clock back to that July morning in 2005, arrive at the station two minutes earlier and catch her train. Being without legs creates many practical difficulties, restrictions, embarrassments and inconveniences which she is still learning to overcome. The noise of the explosion has left her deaf in one ear and impaired her hearing in the other. There are many, many regrets. There is still pain and acute discomfort. However, disabled she may be, but she is still alive and able to use her terrible experience for the benefit of others.

Eight months after the explosion, she returned to her desk at the British Design Council. There, still on her desk, were the files that had been occupying her every waking moment, that first week of July. They had seemed so vitally urgent then. In the past eight months, however, no-one had bothered to open them and no disaster had overtaken the world of British design. This was the activity which had consumed her whole life, and apparently it was so pointless -no-one had seemed to notice that it had been in abeyance for eight months! She reappraised her life; she changed her priorities. Life was to be enjoyed. Life was to be lived to the full. Life was a gift to be shared by others. This Life number Two really had to amount to something, to make a difference! She told herself, 'Remember to live'. She resigned her position immediately and set out upon a new adventure.

She quickly found a cause in conflict resolution and peace-building initiatives. She wanted to make the world a better place by unlocking the potential in all of us to seek peaceful solutions to inter-personal and global problems. She became active in various peace movements, was invited to address conferences and lead discussions and was appointed Ambassador for Peace Direct, an active body that deals with grass-roots conflict resolution. In addition, she joined the Forgiveness Project which helps people who have been wronged, to overcome their hatred or need for vengeance and to seek peace of mind and serenity through forgiveness of the wrong-doer. She has also been recruited by the Leonard Cheshire Foundation to support them in their mission to aid disabled people.

Her views, as expressed in her book, "One Unknown" are reminiscent of 'New Age Spirituality'. Feeling, instinct, love of life, optimism that love, friendship, international brotherhood/sisterhood, generosity of spirit will eventually overcome hatred, fear, bitterness, resentment and envy are the themes that run through her work. Her writing is also free of any criticism of others or complaints of her treatment; in all her dealings with state agencies she is meticulous in expressing her gratitude and appreciation of their efforts on her behalf.

This is clearly intended to be an inspirational book, to encourage us to accept what cannot be changed, to do our utmost to change what may and ought to be changed and to leave ourselves open to the wonderful experience of being alive.

Her enthusiasm for life carries us along and if there are occasions when we may feel a little sceptical, feel we are being manipulated, that the down-side may have been understated, that we would like to remove the rose-coloured spectacles and escape from politically correct attitudes, shame-faced, we try to ignore them. Confronted by so much courage and conviction, it would appear mean-spirited and curmudgeonly to cast doubt upon or find fault with a single sentence.

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THE ISLE OF SERENITY

By Bill Stephen

Between the pearl-grey sea and the pearl grey sky, the M.V. 'Shapinsay' glided through a glassy calm, her wake streaming behind like white smoke, the whale-back shadows of islands floating around us in the thin morning mist. Ahead of us, almost imperceptibly, the sea and sky congealed into a dark cumulus outline that resolved itself into Shapinsay's gently domed profile. Soon afterwards we landed at the pier of Balfour Village, the island's only township.

I was on my way to visit the Unitarian Retreat Centre at Haughland House, where I encountered one of those profound spiritual experiences which appear out of nowhere and leave one feeling blissfully serene and at one with the whole of creation. I ought not to have been surprised, of course, because Shapinsay possesses all the attributes of a spiritual refuge.

The landscape in not dramatic. There are no hills. Undulating grass-lands, veined by dry stone walls, stretch from shore to shore. A few trees with salt-mottled leaves, bend low to the earth. Small as it is, a pastoral island of narrow roads, little fields, trickling burns and gently sloping beaches, Shapinsay, nevertheless, is wedded to vast regions of space, uninterrupted, limitless, space, absolute, incalculable space. Standing in the garden at Haughland, no matter where I looked, over the green pasture land or over the grey-blue sea, my eye was lost in the interminable vault of the sky, an awesome purity that shamed me out of all mean-ness and triviality. I felt not diminished but spiritually enhanced. Anxieties fell away. Serenity and contentment took their place. The landscape had taken control. A sense of wholeness, of one-ness, possessed my being, driving out all distracting thoughts, doubts and preoccupations. My priorities were being changed. A feeling of complete certainty, of assurance that I was accepted, followed immediately. I was aware of existing, but without having to do anything or think about anything....just being, without justification.....and that seemed to be all right

This was a moment out of time, an encounter with eternity. It was an utterly subjective experience, of course, difficult to describe and significant only to me, I suppose, but so penetrating, so intense, that I know I made contact with a form of reality that, by comparison, makes my normal day-to-day existence, important as it is to me, seem insubstantial and transient.

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HAUGHLAND HOUSE RETREAT CENTRE

By Bill Stephen

A few years ago, Lesley and Bill Mckeown acquired a traditional Shapinsay croft which had been built and then occupied by succeeding generations of the same family for 160 years. Lesley and Bill with great care and sensitivity have restored the croft house and the outbuildings, using the original materials as far as possible, to create the Haughland House Retreat Centre, which is managed by a charitable trust. The Retreat, which can accommodate up to eight people, consists of two comfortable meeting rooms, one of which also serves as a dining room, four bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom and chapel. All the facilities of course are modern and recently installed. 

Haughland is set in pasture land and moorland, close to a little bay with a white pebble beach sheltered by a low, green headland. There is also a large garden currently under development to include a labyrinth and a Buddhist garden, as well as the traditional flowerbeds, vegetable patch and a paddock for a rescued lamb, hens, and ducks.

The atmosphere is welcoming, homely, informal and relaxed. Step from the shelter of the Retreat and you are immediately at one with Nature and the elements. There are no streets, few buildings to interrupt the vistas of sea and sky, fresh air with a hint of the sea and no traffic din to irritate the ear and overlay the subtler sounds of birds singing, water lapping and wind sighing in the tall grasses. 

Lesley offers her guests a full programme of activities, including meditation from various traditions and cultures, yoga, traditional crafts and skills, including spinning and weaving, story-telling, poetry, music, painting, sacred circle dancing and exploring the island. Guests, of course, are free to arrange their own programmes if they wish or simply use the accommodation as a base for walking, reading, relaxing or visiting other islands etc. The cost of full board is £30.00 per person, per night. There are two single rooms available.

The Kirkwall-Shapinsay ferry which accommodates vehicles and foot-passengers, makes the crossing in 25 minutes and sailings are frequent throughout the day . Lesley will meet the ferry and drive guests to Haughland House about 3 miles from Balfour village.

From May to September there is a daily bus service from Inverness to Kirkwall, via John O'Groats Ferries. There is a regular rail service from Inverness to Thurso and a free transfer every afternoon to John O'Groats to coincide with the ferry sailings. 

Lesley Mckeown may be contacted by writing to Haughland House, Shapinsay, Orkney Isles, KW17 2DZ.

Website: www.orkneyretreat.org.uk 

Telephone: 018856 711 750 

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HAUGHLAND HOUSE
UNITARIAN RETREAT CENTRE

	Lesley & Bill Mckewon
A Meeting Room	A Corner of the Chapel
David Pointing the Chapel	Standing Stone near Haughland House