Pulling down the heavy, old bolt, it lands with a metallic thud. The two foot latch always resists being opened and does so again before yielding. Then the ancient trees, guarding the South entrance are swung open and, in ones and twos, people file into the storm porch. Light spills in. For a moment or two brief welcomes become lingering pauses before much needed food is given and received.
A familiar old lady. Reusable shopping bags and a sharp, take no prisoners view of the world.
‘What is that bracelet you are wearing? Is it gold?’ said in her strong Lancashire accent.
‘Oh, this is an endless knot and I’m pretty sure it is brass. Alongside other traditions it is a Buddhist symbol representing the eternal cycle, infinity and oneness.’ I pull up the sleeve on my other arm to show a Wrist Mala. No time to be coy. Safe to risk being seen.
‘Oh!’ she says and I see a spark in her that has never been present before over the years. She talks about how she thinks the Buddhists are OK and that everyone is the same really. She works as a cleaner at the hospital and fifteen years ago she was bullied. She read some books and found them helpful and thinks spiritual people can be very wise. There was a soft openness about her. A childlike reaching towards and trusting. ‘Why do they wear those beads?’ she asks.
I talk a little about the origin of Mala beads and their use during meditation. She speaks of needing to stay still and quiet herself sometimes.
The middle aged man next to her, who understands very little English and usually wears a look of weary wariness, smiles, makes eye contact and looks curious. He clutches his empty bags to his chest like a blanket.
Parables-from-the-porch – Gavin-Birchall
Hair as black as loss and a little toddler in a pram. Clothing matching hair and mirroring the sorrow inside. ‘Hello little one,’ I say crouching to be face to face. A wary pair of eyes gaze back. I rise with a greeting. ‘It’s nice to see you. How have you been?’
‘We are doing OK. We will be better next week.’ I don’t understand. My knowledge of Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is poor. Too helicopter and not enough bedside. ‘My parents town was attacked again last week. Much is destroyed.’ The word ‘is’ made it real. Made it now. Made it present.
‘When did you last see your parents?’
‘We have returned each year but may not be able to now.’ The storm porch in Preston shelters from more than just the weather. Emotions instantly travel anywhere there is a heart that cares.
‘Ah, here you are. The delightful duo.’ Mother and daughter, or perhaps daughter and mother, as the older of the two has been very ill on and off. Their roles have reversed. The weight these women carry in the space between them is heavy. But carry it they do and they respond like flowers to kindness.
‘Is she still looking after you well?’ I ask, knowing the answer.
‘Oh yes. Yes, she is,’ the mother says. She is looking fair to middling on the scale of how I know her.
‘How wonderful that there are angels to care for us.’
The three of us let what is unsaid in the space between seep into our bones. Inside I am washed away by the love they hold for each other and their allowing me to know something of it for a moment.
Tall and dignified. Smiling down at me he nods profusely and shares a few, small words of welcome and appreciation. ‘Thank-you. Thank-you.’
‘How are you today?’
‘Oh. Oh. I am OK. Not too bad.’ He has seen the people that came before and heard our conversations. So he volunteers. Life needs so little encouragement to reveal itself to love.
‘My English is not so good. Sorry. Sorry. I have been trying to get a job.’ His English fully eclipses my Persian.
‘I used to teach computing back home. Now I can’t get any job. I have had English lessons to try and help.’
‘We can practice together when we are here.’
More smiling and laughing.
‘Thank-you. Thank-you.’ Warm eyes and busy body. He is all small motions trying to settle in this environment. He shakes my hand with real purpose on his way out as a wordless parting beyond language.
Sauntering along after almost everyone has left, he comes. A swagger and haircut that reminds of Brit pop and the mid-nineties. Different to most others. An edge. A looseness. A scent I recognise. Bottled forgetting. Anything might happen. ‘Alright?’ he says.
‘Yes thanks. What have you got planned for today?’
‘Ha. Well, you know, I thought I might leave it undesigned.’ This is going to be interesting. Front foot talking. ‘I might go for a walk. I like walking. I walk most days.’
‘Lovely day for it. Sun shining. Dry.’
‘Yeah. You know, the other day I walked to Blackpool and back.’ His smart, brown, polished Oxford shoes clash with the story but I believe him. ‘I thought, I’ll walk to Lytham, find a bench in front of the sea, dive into a paperback and down a bottle of liqueur.’ Such charm that it is easy to like this person. ‘I got to Lytham, couldn’t get into the paperback, downed the liqueur and carried on going. How far do you reckon that is?’
‘About 15 miles each way.’ A quiet moment to consider that. ‘Have you got any bags with you?’
He also shook my hand on the way out with a wink and a ‘Cheers!’
I am utterly incidental at the heart of these days. Taking names and postcodes and stories and worries. Accepting lives and wholeness and uncertainty and hand shakes. I receive more than I give while in service. Small kindnesses carry the world within when you have too little to sustain you. I am face to face with my fortune and shoulder to shoulder with their hardship. In gratitude and compassion. At least for a few moments. Until I swing the doors shut, lift the bolt back into place and return to my world less than a mile away from the South entrance and its storm porch.
‘Give shelter. Share consciousness. Encourage life.’ Words borrowed from the title poem from the Lifesider Poetry Collection.