70) Francis-tide
I had been looking forward to this weekend and the chance of seeing the macmillanii hybrid. But in the middle of the week the forecast changed, and I awoke this morning to the sounds of wind and rain. The garden has taken a battering, with the recently emerged blossoms all shaken to the floor. Every now and then a honeyeater or blackbird darts past the bay window. Otherwise there are few signs of life outside the window today.
Sheltered inside, I’ve spent the day so far working my way through the usual weekend household chores – changing the sheets, dusting and vacuuming, taking the recycling out, putting on loads of washing. I’ve checked the fridge and the cupboards and there is plenty there for me to rustle up dinner this evening. And so, without having to face the elements to fetch groceries, without having to go anywhere, I can simply rest here on the sofa and be still.[1] Let the wind rage outside. I can pay it no mind.
I’m reminded of a day with Midge during my last visit home to Somerset. It was April, one of those grey and damp April days, and we went to Burnham-on-Sea. All the photos we took look like they had been brushed over with a grey wash. Muted and soft.
I love how memories like that reappear; unbidden but welcome.
*
A week has passed and I still haven’t been to see the macmillanii. Thursday promises weather warm enough to catch the flowers open, but I’ll be working. I have appointments with both the physio and the dentist later this week and will step out of work for both. Funny how I feel guilty though at the thought of taking an extra hour to visit and to celebrate something precious in the bush. The strange economies of living and duty. As if some therapies must be on your own time – like they’re less acceptable somehow. As if the sounds of the ocean or birdsong or the wind in the trees can’t heal you more surely than half an hour in the GP’s waiting room, a two-minute consultation and a prescription…
Just now I’m sat at the dining room table and watching night fall in the garden. The clocks have changed and tonight I had time to water the garden when I arrived home from work. The birds were busy making the most of the last hour of daylight.
I’ve spent hours in the garden over the last few days. I’ve weeded the patio by hand, cut back the lemon tree, which was overbearing, mowed one of the lawns, dug out the dead rose bush and planted its replacement. The ceanothus in the back garden is now at its peak underneath the silver birch which is in full leaf again. In the front garden, the ceanothus has already finished, replaced by the purple pelargonium and geraniums, and a honeysuckle that has gone wild. I love the garden at this time of year. So much life and colour and fulness and change. There’s joy too – joy in the promise of the new yellow rose I’ve planted. Joy that my house is entirely surrounded now by the colours of spring. And no small joy that my ribs have recovered well enough for me be digging and mowing.
Life and beauty and love and service and joy in my garden. Perfect for Francis-tide.
Last weekend marked one year since I stepped forward and became a novice with the Third Order Franciscans. I’ve been reflecting on the vow I took and my Rule of Life. Thinking, too, about the people I’ve met, the Franciscans of history whose lives I’ve studied, the conversations held and the reports written, the humble surrender to the rhythms of daily and weekly prayer. It has been a busy year all told. I’m not the man I used to be. My perspective has shifted. My eyes see through a different lens.
I feel more belonging to my Rule of Life, the rhythms of prayer, and especially the weekly gathering of my Franciscan brothers and sisters than I ever felt within a congregation. Why is that? Is it because my Franciscan vows urge me to make Christ known, and I wonder if the church today would even recognise Christ and His teachings. Why isn’t my church screaming for justice in Gaza and the West Bank? Why isn’t my church making headlines in the name of peace and love and justice – the very things we say we follow in this Christ of ours. For sure, I’m not the man I used to be. Fascism is on the rise everywhere. The planet is groaning under the weight of destruction and greed. The violence of Zionism is relentless on my newsfeed. And the silence from most of the church is deafening. Tutu spoke wisdom about how silence only helps the oppressor. What have we become? So comfortable in our churches with our morning teas and mild practice.
“You know, Olly, I really do prefer it when you write about orchids and the birds and your prayer life while walking in the bush…”
Sorry, yes. Look now at how lush the silver birch is this year. Those winter rains have done it the world of good. There’s a new nest up in one of the branches. And the sweet peas are climbing up to meet the lower branches.
Thank god for denial.
Thank god we can afford the makeup
to pile upon the face of it all.
Look at the pretty world.[2]
Andrea knows. Thank God I’m not the man I used to be. In a fortnight, I will renew my Franciscan vows for a second novitiate year. How do I intend to make Christ known? How will I serve those less fortunate than me? How will I contribute to peace and justice?
Maybe I’ll write another book and next time I’ll not let the editor remove all the references to social justice and campaigning for peace. Every reference to Gaza was removed from the last one – how did that align with my Franciscan vows? How can I live with that betrayal?
*
Another week has passed. I spent this Saturday morning as I always do – working my way through the household chores. It’s birthday season, so I spent time posting gifts to friends and arranging lunches and dinners. Tomorrow the weather will be warm and sunny. There’s a chance I’ll finally get to see the macmillanii after all. I’m fully aware that every minute of my life is a blessing and a gift. I’m painfully aware that this life of mine is a gift denied to so many. God, I should be doing more in this world.
***
Olly Ponsonby, October 2026
[1] Ps 46:10
[2][2] “Thank god for denial…” taken from “When the Bough Breaks” by Andrea Gibson, in “Pole dancing to Gospel hymns”, 2008.