Encountering Psalm 19 on a rooftop

Is this how the writing of a memoir starts?

The richness of sound, the depth of phrase, the pain of heartache, the joy of wonder. Memory, voice, Spirit, imagination are what I'm actually reading - and writing. Drawn to their vision, beauty, craft, poise and perfection, how odd then that in an era of book and screen learning, it is the oral tradition of my childhood which draws me to written words, and to the practise of writing.

The curiosity of my unlearned and unlearning inner child is an unfettered force for attraction. That desire to know and experience not only spiritual beauty with awe, wonder and gratitude, but also to try to understand worlds, emotions and experiences which I have not embraced - and in some cases would not wish to embrace. A safe observation platform if you will, yet at times the written word bestows on me a stimulus to move beyond mere abstract thought, into real-world exploration and sensory indulgence.

This desire to know, was and continues to be a trait spawned and nurtured at an early age by my mother as a performer, and by my Dad as an accomplished and often hilarious raconteur. Curious then in an era whose cultural norms emphasised that children should be seen and not heard, I gratefully received the freely given gift of a love of the beauty of language, offering the chance to develop voice, albeit more loudly in my current, second childhood.

As a youngster, the words of Shakespeare were brought to life thanks to my Mum's membership of a local amateur dramatic society. When she was learning her lines for the lead role of Kate in "The Taming of the Shrew", she would often ask me to read the alternate parts, to help in her memorisation and timing. The impact this had was a wonderful appreciation of the richness of The Bard's phrasing, which no doubt helped later with my high school English studies and established the desire to explore other delightful, solitary or shared sensual experiences.

To this day, when I see Shakespeare's written words, they evoke such rich memories that reading them can never be for me a quiet, solitary pursuit. Be they Sonnets or plays, or indeed when I pick up any significant religious text, I am compelled to read them aloud, with fascination, joy, and as much passion and understanding as I can muster.

While working at Royal Brisbane Hospital in the BC period (Before Children), Shakespeare-out-loud was a wonderful balm to be inhaled. If I had an afternoon shift coming up ahead of a couple of days off, I would occasionally take a few furtive moments before sunset to survey the hospital gardens for unopened Rosebuds. Later that evening, shielded by darkness and armed with scissors, those buds would be lovingly nipped and strategically relocated to the plethora of empty vases and jam jars longing for company in our first house in Camp Hill. How delightful then to awaken the next day to a home full of their scent and just wander about in the sunshine, breathing deeply and reading loudly a Sonnet or ten, or a passage from Romeo and Juliet - all the while not minding what the neighbours thought!

Having stolen and enjoyed the scent and sound, other images of written words come flooding back from the rooftop of that same hospital - words and images of a more expansive, grander vista - and of a less sinfully transgressive nature. One late afternoon I happened to run into two Nuns in what was literally the closest space to Heaven for miles around. As we quietly enjoyed the sunset, one turned to the other and quoted the words of what has become one of my favourite Biblical passages, the first verse of Psalm 19: "The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork." Grateful for the sanctity and beauty that line evoked, those quiet and kindly Brides of Christ have continued to provide me with the words of perfect Benediction - when I observe a sunset, a night sky, a cloud formation, birds wheeling in flocks or effortlessly rising on thermals, or any grand natural phenomenon calling me to make my best effort to observe, be grateful and share. And little wonder then, that the closing line of that same song of praise is in and of itself, a wondrous and uplifting call to the writer in me (perhaps in all of us): "Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer."

Chris Wardle (Hamza) works at being happy and grateful, while writing with an eye for wonder, a taste for questions, and a sense of proximity to the Sacred. Un-social-media-averse, you can reach him at: TheHealingCup@protonmail.com