The day after my last long walk (“Do you see what I see?”), I went for another.
A little over 16 kilometres.

This time, unlike the last, my gaze was not downcast. As with my spirit, my head was up.
And here following are some of the things that drew my eye.

(again, apologies for the old, not-“smart” camera phone image quality).

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It was a warm day, and after about 6 kilometres I paused at a public reserve area to refill my water bottle.
There I spotted a cricket ball nestling down in the grass.

I sat down to rest and stretch for a while. As I enjoyed the feeling of old, roughened leather in my hands,
memories of childhood came flooding back.

Like so many Aussie lads, I was addicted to cricket as a youngster. Fast bowling was my specialty.

As I looked out across the reserve, my mind inadvertently recalled the imagery of long forgotten major triumphs
— and sadnesses — of my sporting youth.

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I remembered how, in Year 6, a new and very sports-oriented school principal was appointed to head my primary school.
He promptly raised the emphasis on organised sports activities, including, for the first time in my experience, inter-school competition.

The particular images I recalled as I gazed out over the reserve, were memories of my own participation in two such inter-school competitions. And in so remembering, I was sharply reminded of the perils, and injustices, arising from the notions of popularity, peer pressure, and celebrity. Yes, even at primary school grade.

I recalled how another young lad, along with myself, spearheaded the school cricket team’s fast bowling attack. The other lad, however, was rather more gifted than I; he could bat as well. Unsurprisingly then, he was anointed team captain.
Being more charismatic to boot, he was the school’s unquestioned Mr Popular.

The memory of our first ever inter-school cricket match came painfully to mind. An “away” match. I was reminded how our team bowled first, and I was “on form”, ripping through the top and middle orders, taking figures of something like 6 for 10. The team captain collected 3 wickets, and chasing a tiny total, we won at a gentle canter.

He was voted man of the match.

Then I remembered our first inter-school soccer match. In a somewhat embarrassing 9-0 overall drubbing, I scored the first 5 goals for our team, demoralising the other. The team captain — yes, the same lad who captained the cricket team — then followed up with the final 4 goals.

Those final 4 goals appeared to be all that anyone remembered when the final whistle blew. Because once again, the team captain was popularly voted man of the match. And this time, being a “home” game, he was mobbed by backslapping teammates and enthusiastic home audience. I wandered from the pitch alone, wondering at the injustice of it all.

Then I was blessed to recall something entirely more pleasant, and really, quite beautiful. Indeed, a little tear came to my eye as I remembered it. Seriously.

After the soccer match, at the end of the school day while waiting for the bus, and yes, feeling a little down, one of the girls in my year came to me with a personal gift. She had made, and colourfully decorated, her own Man of the Match award, fashioned from cardboard. Shyly, she handed it to me, along with the declaration that she thought I should have been named man of the match, before scurrying away.

Such a beautiful memory. What a sweet, kind, lovely heart she possessed.

True it is, that “unless you turn around and become as little children, you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven”.

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As I rolled the cricket ball around in my hands, I experimented with what I could remember of the different grip techniques. And I tried to recall what was the special grip I had always used, and practiced countless times, in trying for
my special “unplayable” delivery.

If you know nothing of cricket, then this will of course mean little to you. Suffice to say, my special delivery was a ball which would — on incredibly rare occasion — swing away from a right-handed batsman, but on striking the pitch would then
seam back in the opposite direction, towards the stumps.

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I remembered fondly a moment of unalloyed sporting triumph, which came on moving to a new school in Year 8. On one of the first occasions of playing sports, two teachers divided the boys into opposing teams, which they would captain for a cricket match.

When the teacher on the opposing team — a very large man — came to the wicket to bat at No. 3, the ball was thrown to me. If I recall correctly, I had perhaps boasted somewhat of being a decent fast bowler. I guess there were those who must have been keen to see what the new boy could do.

Naturally then, when I ran in to bowl to the imposing figure at the other end of the pitch, I was determined to try to get my special “killer” delivery to come off. And remarkably, in that first over, on about the third attempt, it did.

The batsman stepped forward to the pitch of the ball, following the outswing, and played a confident drive to off … only to hear the death rattle of his stumps behind him, as the ball neatly jagged back, through the gap between bat and pad.

Quietly delighted within — not at having dismissed the batsman, but at having actually pulled off that delivery — but not wishing to outwardly display anything but “cool”, I strolled nonchalantly down the wicket, only to rapidly become more than a little startled and bemused as, quite unexpectedly, new school teammates — and even the teacher captaining our side — rushed me with excited vigour and enthusiasm, as though I were some conquering hero.

Perhaps noticing the puzzled expression on my face — like, “What’s the fuss?” — the teacher informed me that the man I had just completely bamboozled was a Grade cricketer, who had never been dismissed in all his years teaching at that school.
I had cleaned him up in my first over.

I never took his wicket again. Ah, bittersweet nostalgia!

Rested and refreshed, I returned to the present as I donned my Frillneck hat and Julbo Sherpa sunnies, before walking on.

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About a kilometre or so further, I came upon some horses grazing in the paddocks adjacent the quiet country road. Noticing me approaching, they came to the fence to greet me, doubtless hoping for a treat. The sight, the smell, the touch of a horse … truly, there is something unquestionable grand, noble, earthy, and magical about it all.

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It was a truly wonderful, glorious day, with hardly a cloud in the sky. A little further along, I snapped these photos with my old phone. Alas, their quality is woefully inadequate to capture the beauty of the vista across the fields and towards the mountains, beneath stunning skies, but perhaps you will gain some small sense of it.

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Barely 500 metres further, however, I was startled to suddenly spot a large red-bellied black snake in the grass no more than 5 metres ahead of me. I moved off the grass verge and onto the road, keeping my distance, and observed it for a short while.

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Sadly, of late I have noticed a number of adult, and baby red-bellies, who have suffered the fate of encountering whizzing motorists; it is springtime here in Australia. Happily, this one decided to abandon any thought of sunning itself on the warming asphalt, and instead slithered off into the surrounding shrubbery.

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Perhaps it was my day to rescue creatures from the perils of careless and inattentive motorists. For no more than 100 metres further along, a long-necked turtle was quietly lumbering up the road, right in the wheel tracks. Indeed, so near was it, that I spotted it while watching the red-bellied black, which prompted my moving on to its rescue, and in so doing, perhaps being the cause of startling the snake into going for cover.

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Naturally, I picked this fellow up and — mindfully holding him at far arms length, to avoid being splashed by the inevitable pungent stream of retaliatory urine — gently placed him well off the road.

It was some kilometres further before anything else caught my eye sufficiently to prompt my pausing to take a photograph. And then, such attractions came rapidly. All within 100 metres, in fact. Perhaps I just suddenly became more acutely observant —

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My final resting place on the day’s journey was the little old local cemetery. I find it is a lovely quiet place to turn in, and take a break from one’s exertions.

I could not help but notice — and ponder — the inscriptions on these two headstones.

Beautiful. Don’t you think?

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General

Heads up

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Considering a Le Pera “Cherokee” seat for your motorcycle? I recommend it. An excellent balance of form, and function.

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I usually run a Le Pera “Silhouette Solo”. It is almost perfect for me: just the right combination of width, and firmness. And it looks great. I have done 600+ km (375 mile) all day rides on the Silhouette … with the help of soft luggage to lean on. For me, the only thing it lacks is the obvious: back support.

That’s where the “Cherokee” comes in. It appears to be about the same width, thickness, and firmness, with the added plus of outstanding lower back support. And all while still looking (I think) really, really good.

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Now, tassels and conchos are not really my thing. A little OTT for me. So I would honestly have preferred the plain side, pleated stitch version. It is available as an option but only to suit later model ‘wide tyre’ Softails. Since I picked this one up on eBay for a very low price — brand new, but with a tear in the cover, which I repaired well enough with Loctite Vinyl Fabric & Plastic Flexible Adhesive — I decided to live with it.

But I really couldn’t abide the original (and oh so cliched) Western Star concho. Cheap, flimsy, a bit “wanky”. I first tried painting it black, hoping to disguise it as much as possible.

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Dissatisfied with that, I went back to eBay. “Kristi” from West Coast Tack kindly helped out with a couple of attractive, and much higher quality alternatives, produced by Jeremiah Watt. Much better! Now only to settle on which of the two I prefer.

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More photographs: Psalmistice on Flickr

Motorcycles

Please be seated

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I rode out to the lakeside

In turmoil of mind and soul

There, in time

I met again, with a long lost friend

Thanks to the Ancress of Lynn

Who pointed me straight

To the fountain

The Living Water

Which did not burst forth, strong, overfilling

As before

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My head bowed, eyes closed

He came

Like dew forming

Gently, gently

Gently rising

Cool refreshing, slowly soaking

Shadow moistening

The dry walls of my well

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And now, this place, this quiet

Gentle, light and floating bliss

Mystical oasis,

Surrounded yet

Untouched by cursed desert

Has not remained behind, by the lakeside

Fading

Soon after I rode away

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It has come with me

Within me

I feel, I see

A presence

Dissolving my compulsions

Anxieties, and hatreds

As though they were all

Ever so distant

Alien things

Those former companions now

Seem foreign to me

And true it is

So long as I continue

To hold my peace

And look in upon

The face of these Present Waters

They rise a little

A little

A little more

To meet my thankful gaze.

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“Thou shalt not please Me

so well as thou dost

when thou art in silence,

and suffrest Me to speak

in thy soul.”

 

“If thou wilt be

high with Me in heaven,

keep Me alway in thy mind

as much as thou mayst…”

 

“In nothing that thou dost

or sayest…

thou mayst

no better please God

than believe

that He loveth thee.”

 

— from A Short Treatyse Of Contemplation

Taught By

Our Lord Jesu Christ,

Or

Taken Out Of The Book

Of Margery Kempe,

Ancress Of Lynn

General

These Present Waters

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Visit Psalmistice on Flickr for more photos.
 

General

Reflections

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When thou comest by thyself,
think not before what thou shalt do after,
but forsake as well good thoughts as evil thoughts,
and pray not with thy mouth
but list[en] thee right well.

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And then if thou aught shalt say,
look not how much nor how little that it be,
nor weigh not what it is nor what it bemeaneth …
and look that nothing live in thy working mind
but a naked intent stretching into God,
not clothed in any special thought of God in Himself … .

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This naked intent freely fastened and grounded in very belief
shall be nought else to thy thought and to thy feeling
but a naked thought and a blind feeling of thine own being:
as if thou saidest thus unto God, within in thy meaning,
“That what I am, Lord, I offer unto Thee,
without any looking to any quality of Thy Being,
but only that Thou art as Thou art, without any more.”

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That meek darkness be thy mirror, and thy whole remembrance.
Think no further of thyself than I bid thee do of thy God,
so that thou be one with Him in spirit,
as thus without departing and scattering,
for He is thy being, and in Him thou art that thou art;
not only by cause and by being, but also,
He is in thee both thy cause and thy being.

— Anonymous, Epistle of Privy Counsel.

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For silence is not God, nor speaking is not God;
fasting is not God, nor eating is not God;
loneliness is not God, nor company is not God;
nor yet any of all the other two such contraries.
He is hid between them, and may not be found
by any work of thy soul,
but all only by love of thine heart.

He may not be known by reason,
He may not be gotten by thought,
nor concluded by understanding;
but He may be loved and chosen
with the true lovely will of thine heart … .

— Anonymous, Epistle of Discretion.

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On the art of contemplative prayer; that is, of love meeting love.

Motorcycles, Mysticism

Naked stretching

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