When my mother was pregnant with me and overdue, my grandfather (a doctor) told her I would arrive the day the swallows left his garage to make their arduous journey south. He was no man of faith but, for sure, what he said came true. I was born on the first day of autumn. Maybe that’s why I always get excited at the sight of the returning swallows every spring. Certainly, contemplating the awesome, dangerous journey these tiny creatures (weighing around 20g) make to South Africa across the Pyrenees and Sahara fills me with wonder.
Even the psalmist gives a special mention to the swallows. Expressing their own love to be in God's presence in His Temple, they clearly felt at one with these tiny, fragile birds - commenting that even the swallow had found a nest for herself to lay her eggs within the sacred temple precinct (psalm 84:3).
A little while ago, I wrote this poem about the swallows:
Swallow .. where will you fly to
Now that summer's gone?
The leaves have turned,
The autumn chill
Sweeps though your summer down.
Your chicks have flown,
Prepare, prepare
To make an uncertain journey
To that far-off place - of warmth and light
A welcome land - your home.
My soul ... where will you fly to?
When winter 'last shall come
The time to shed this tired old shell
And lay it in the dust.
Your spirit soars
Upon its rapid course
No uncertainty now
Your time has come
And like the swallow
You find your welcome home.
It was their idea: a trip to Stratford. And so it was ... the other Thursday we took ten learners from Coventry Jesus Centre to Stratford – from Iran, Iraqi Kurdistan, Latvia and France. The Kurdish ladies were attired in their best clothes; indeed, I felt positively under-dressed. The best costumes in the theatre exhibition we were later to see were barely an equal match to theirs!
None of them had ever been to Stratford before. Everything was exciting! Everything was interesting. How good to see the obvious pleasure in their eyes at observing, for so many of us, quite ordinary things! It’s strange how you look at the old familiar sights with fresh eyes when you are with people who are seeing those things for the first time. The old heron sitting in the tree, the gracious swans and narrow, summer barges, the ancient, timber-framed buildings; even the word ‘royal’ takes on an exciting new meaning as RSC (Royal Shakespeare Company) has to be explained.
Threatened with a thunderstorm which never happened, we jumped off our transport and wended our way through the crowded streets up to Shakespeare’s birthplace, taking countless photos, and then onto New Place and back onto the riverside park.
Lunch was the best; it’s got to be the finest picnic I ever had; I’d bought some honey sandwiches but I certainly didn’t need them! Our Kurdish mama had bought a picnic for fifteen and more! This was Siti from a previous blog The silver tray was bought out and we all were given abundant portions of biryani and a highly colourful dolma dish. It was a feast and the likes of such a splendid picnic can rarely have been seen before on that park besides the Avon. Passersby's heads turned - intrigued at the unusual sight.
After that, we walked along besides the river to the parish church to see the bard’s burial place, then back across the ferry - pretty exhausted actually.
For all our faults, the UK has a brilliant heritage; when you get to know these Iranians and Iraqi Kurds and what they have suffered, you realise just how fortunate we are on this little isle of ours. We have known civil wars about the very things they have – who is going to rule – but we’ve come out on the other side.
But for all our rich heritage, we have so much to learn from our friends ... their appreciation, their pleasure at the simple things of life and above all their hospitality and open-hearted friendship. Teachers only have students for a short while. For us, to know them for this brief spell in time is a privilege.
