It is about this time of the year that I must put on boots for my early morning walk with the dog. It may not have been raining the night before. But we will both return with damp undercarriage and the need of towelling down.
The season of the dewfall is upon us and the song of Eleanor Farjeon ‘Morning has broken like the first morning’ calls to me across the meadow. For a person of my generation a song always to be associated with the Cat Stevens version; its vibrant piano accompaniment lifting the spirits to a delight in the newness in each day.
But it is more than just another day; rather it is a replay of the very first day.
This may be far-fetched but only when truth is sought solely through the candid researches of reason and neglects the gifts of poetic imagination.
The dog and I make a new track through the moist film which has gently come into sight as the dawn rises. There is a selfish pleasure to be the first walking that way at the beginning of that day. Our tracks will soon be scuffed away by many others who will walk the parkland. They will disappear in the growing warmth of the day. Yet for a moment ours was the morning and all the potential in the day was there before us.
Most powerful Holy Spirit
and subdue us.
where the ordinary
is made glorious,
and glory seems
with the brilliance
of Your light
(An invocation of the Holy Spirit: Northumbria Community – Celtic Daily Prayer)
This call to the Universal Spirit may suit me as I stroll in the glories of the early morning with my canine friend but in the distance I spy the towers of the city lurking in the mists around the river and I wonder -does dew fall in the city?
For pavements are hard and buses crammed; bikes fight for space on highways which give them no room and the tunnels of heat and roar know nothing of dew.
So the Universal Spirit must find another way to descend and bathe us.
She will be there in the parks as in my meadow …
She is the enlivening cool amidst the tall buildings before the heat of the traffic builds up …
She will be a sudden breeze lifting off the still waters of the canal …
And she will there as the quietening shadow when the clash and glare of the day’s demands are over
And drinks are poured and frowns ease into calm.
In my meadow I should not forget the city lest I reduce the work of the Spirit to my chosen encounters which is a blasphemy from which there is no freedom.