Late in the afternoon, the stump grinder began work, removing the remains of four trees planted among others across the last 50 years.
Their removal evoked a sadness, a loss of connection, a regret for the newly opened space that a canopy had recently embraced.
At the rear of the long garden, a small shed had long been partially hidden by the trees.
The paint was crumbling from sturdy weatherboards, a broken window and a door needing repairs. Rough as the exterior appeared, it held an attractive, tidy, oil-stained timber interior.
The unfortunate loss of four trees had gifted a view of this long-neglected little room.
Was it the light, the open view or, perhaps, the opportunity for a readymade project, or the sense of quiet, even peace here?
Many years of neglect made the project self-evident, and work began.
However, a quiet reflection soon emerged within the work and the realisation that I was preparing a small garden sanctuary. A calm place, perfectly set apart for no other reason than to read, write, reflect and pray.
Embracing the absence of deliberate distraction, sanctuaries can be paradoxical places.
Such sites become holy in their being set apart from the concerns, choices, and activity of any day. They distil the sense of absence, stimulating the heart and mind to enhance responses to the contexts and relationships that make us human.
Whether a sanctuary is material or within the intangibility of the heart, the calm and the peace that can be experienced become a fragile, generous gift.
A fragility from which strength may be found and a generosity that might be sensed as divine.
- John Fairbrother is a retired Anglican priest living in Aotearoa New Zealand.
- Flashes of Insight is an international publication. The editorial policy is that spelling reflects the country of origin.