Meanders

Over an absence of maybe four or five weeks without walking, and during which time many things have happened, it was good to return to the Rose Revived at Newbridge and continue this journey of ours-184 miles along the Thames Path. With 39 miles done, we had 14 miles to go today-Matt, David and I.
The river looked fresh and youthful, as she glided gracefully under the elegant arches of the Cotswold stone bridge, and we set off in companionable silence towards the dreaming spires of Oxford. A casual graffiti heart on a pillbox made us smile as we strode out across the meadows, furrowed and fenced, dodging preoccupied sheep, which steadfastly refused to move at our approach and simply stared defiantly before taking a couple of indifferent steps to the side. Occasionally, tiny lambs bleated and moved closer to their Mums wary and innocently new.
It was hard to believe that life with all its hustle and bustle, noise and busyness was happening only a few miles away. For us, there was only stillness, a quiet that soothed the soul, calmed the trauma of the last few weeks and softened our voices as we walked the miles together. We were very aware of how small we were under the vastness of the infinite sky, the natural beauty of the smooth, soft water and the forever greeness of the meadows rolling as far as the eye could see. There was the same sense of awe and wonder one feels in a cathedral, the same hush, the same sense of something or someone greater than us and the same sense of history, creation and eternity. A choir of songbirds sang in perfect pitch; harmonising with our thoughts, creating songs of the soul, sung softly under the grey vaulted sky.
Villages, spires, farm buildings and the occasional riverside garden came into view but never intruded or invaded our peace. Once more locks, gaggles of crazy geese, bridges of wood, iron and stone criss-crossed the river as she swept onwards. Reeds, rushes and weeping willows, bejewelled with tiny emerald teardop curtains, decorated her edges; hawthorn just budding, daffodils dancing to her exquisite melody.....and us. Three souls doing the unthinkable, each trying to make sense of the incomprehensible, each seeking a purpose in a life that seems at times to have no point, each trying to find peace and truth and hope. It felt good and positive and, yes, hopeful.
We became part of the landscape, part of nature herself, small, insignificant but somehow necessary in the bigger picture of life. The river meandered over the earth, her surface calm and mirror-like, the reflections of the trees, the branches, the reeds, willows and clouds forming an exquisite stained glass window, reflecting nature in all her perfect splendour. Each twist and turn was huge and altered the vista before us, reminding us that just when we feel that life is going in a certain direction and we can see into the immediate future, our life-plan, what we want it to be, it has this knack of suddenly sweeping us off course, changing our plans in an instant, disorientating us, traumatising us and carrying on, regardless of our pain, fear, terror and futility but, and this is what we are coming to understand, we are always offered a new vista, a new opportunity, time to become calmer and settle into our new direction, the new us and we are shaped and moulded by these meanders, just as the landscape is shaped and changed by the perfect power of the water. There is a reassurance in this.
From time to time along our path we came across trees brought down by the wind, or sticken by lightening or collapsed with age, disease or erosion. At first the majority seemed dead and lifeless, left for the insects and animals to reshape and destroy, but time after time, despite the desperate destruction that was visible, there were tiny signs of life shooting from the broken, bent and breathless branches. Time and again, it seemed hopeless, but life was there, hope was in each tiny shoot and we heard the message! Out of our brokeness, our lack of joy and life and hope, we will live again, different, changed, broken but with those tiny shoots giving us the hope we so desperately need.
The approach to Oxford was unexpectedly rural, with the river making her entrance secretly across water meadows dotted with winsome white horses, sturdy black cattle, flocks of assorted birds and a random kite soaring above. Still modestly shy, she crept along a backwater, slipping silently around the edge of this historic city of hopes and dreams, dropping us off at the station with a fond farewell.
Somehow, today she had patiently taught us an incredible lesson. And we were grateful.