By Ron Kett
In the garden of the Priory was a rose. I had been looking for the ‘perfect’ rose to quietly commune with when I perceived another with red and yellow petals. It had existed throughout the heavy downpours. Its petals were no longer complete and whilst shedding parts of itself it had become discoloured. Within its centre was what was left of the tight, well formed flower yet to open fully.
I looked at it simply and it spoke to me. No words of course. But through simply being there without pretence, exactly as it had been created to be. Naked to opinion. Shining with love. Not that as far as I know the rose could love. But love emitted from it. The rose in all of its beauty and truth was there.
In a moment of clarity it seemed that it was not just the rose which was speaking to me, but also its and our Creator through this true example of perfection. Again without the use of words.
The message had such subtlety, the infinite subtlety of the Divine, beckoning from beyond.