Mountains, Snowdonia, Wales. Photo: Photo: Berit Watkin / flickr CC.
Towards the Source/Tua’r Tarddiad
Gerald Hewitson welcomes an important new Quaker book
Borders and boundaries are often sources for reflection, but many Quakers resist clear categorisation ‘…it’s not possible to say when night becomes day, when summer becomes autumn or exactly where a river enters the sea… Nor are there boundaries between the ordinary everyday things and things of the spirit. Both seem to overlap, somehow, and become one.’ Often Quakers celebrate their life journey as liminal space: a place, by definition, which is betwixt and between – the only space, according to Richard Rohr, where we can truly learn: ‘… the walk [was] a separate space, a segment of time that was different, where I concentrated more on the things of the spirit, when I pushed myself physically and spiritually.’
It is descriptions of the experience of making such a life journey within the geographical, cultural and linguistic context broadly defined by Offa’s Dyke, which is offered in two books produced by Meeting of Friends in Wales. One is Towards the Source and – given the bilingual nature of Wales – its Welsh language companion book Tua’r Tarddiad. These books are not identical, each version having untranslated pieces which best reflect the spirit of each language.
Through a series of individual, sometimes intimate, voices, the books offer a soundscape of what it is like to be Quaker in Wales. Both books convey a sense of the unity of life, of living a life of integrity:
‘As a child, my problem was that I lived in fear of revealing my true nature, lest I should forfeit completely the love constantly shown me by my parents… Back in Wales, having retired, I joined others seeking the Truth, not through the external discipline of doctrine and ceremony, but through the internal discipline of silent waiting for the presence of the Spirit;… [these seekers of Truth] understand that unconditional love follows inevitably from the knowledge that there is that of God within each of us, whatever our nature.’
But the sense that the values of the world are turned upside down infuses this short book: ‘Avoiding or resisting conflict now feels like strength rather than a weakness.’
Another, very brief, contribution is a description of a particular experience and is simply entitled ‘Seeing the divine in the human’. This infusion of divine and human is not achieved by the narrow imposition of idealised perfection, rather, there is full acknowledgement of the difficulties of living a life of integrity: ‘I belonged to Friends of the Earth, because the environment, particularly my local, Welsh valley, was so important to me. Now I feel my concern for the environment and my Quaker faith have merged… if I can live simply, with a light footprint on the earth, I am doing all I can. It is incredibly hard at times, as family pressures push me in the wrong direction, and I have to make compromises. Trying is the best I can do.’
Living a life of love is not easy:
‘Hard graft to practise other –
The sweat of cultivation
Till love becomes reaction.’
Yet, at all times, weaving amongst the stories of lives lived in service, there is a deep acceptance that our lives need only be ‘Digon da’ – ‘Good enough.’
Thus far, these voices are perhaps recognisable as universally Quaker. Given that borders might be indistinct, hazy, wavy, nevertheless, at some point, we cross them; night does become day; the river flows into the sea; Wales is not England and we somehow become more fully, more completely, Quaker – bound, irrevocably, to this tradition, in this place and at this time. What do these books say about a distinctively Welsh way of being Quaker?
There is the landscape. Whether in words or the black and white photographs which are interspersed at intervals, a love of a distinctive landscape – sea, mountain, hill, lake – and its role in spiritual formation, permeates the text: ‘And this, too, is being a Quaker in Wales. We meet looking out on the sea – no, the broad estuary, Môr Hafren from one side, Bristol Channel from the other…’
If we listen carefully, we can also discern a distinct Welsh experience. Partly this is captured in a particular history, as revealed in Meeting houses and in the lives of ‘people in Wales who have inspired us’. Quite appropriately, one of these is Waldo Williams (1904-71): ‘…considered by many to be the greatest Welsh poet of the twentieth century… The title [‘The Peacemakers’] comes from a poem about the bombing of Swansea… Appropriately, this poem finds its way into the Quaker tapestry in the panel “Living Adventurously”…’
Gwyn ei byd yr oes a’u clyw
Blessed is the generation that hears them
Dangnefeddwyr, plant i Ddu.
The peacemakers, the children of God.
In typical Quaker fashion, however, it is not only the famous who receive recognition. The life of Thomas Wynne (1627-1692) Crynwr, Heddychwr, a Chyfaill William Penn (Quaker, pacifist, and friend of William Penn) is received with sadness by this anonymous contributor: ‘Sadness, because Thomas Wynne never received the gratitude of his nation and because such an extraordinary man from such a poor background slipped through the cracks in our national memory.’
Such sadness is rare: ‘I have noticed that amongst Friends in Wales, the harder the problems faced, the louder the level of laughter.’
Whilst not universal, many of the pieces written here spring from a childhood laid down in a biblical tradition, yet finding an adult fullness and richness on a Quaker taith ysbrydol / spiritual journey. The extent to which such lives are expressed in service is humbling, and this service stretches out beyond the border with immediate neighbours to embrace Madagascar, Bolivia and Palestine/Israel.
‘At present I am in the South Hebron Hills… There are times I despair… What is the weight of a snowflake? … And yet the combined weight of many snowflakes on a branch can make that branch break off and fall… So I try to enjoy being a snowflake in this divided land.’
No reference to these books would be complete without acknowledging the richness of bilingual identity. The existence of Welsh as a distinct language runs like a stream under and through the text: children growing up in ‘sleepover’ weekends, and Quaker gatherings, ‘bickering variously in English or Welsh (or both at once)’; a marriage of two nationalities where the promises were made in Welsh and Swedish; first encountering Quakers in the classic Welsh novel by Marion Eames – Y Stafell Ddirgel / The Silent Room.
Bilingual diversity is implicitly lifted up and celebrated by the existence of having an English and Welsh version of this book. Although my Welsh is not adequate for me to do true justice to the Welsh version, as an Englishman living in Wales I celebrate the existence of both books. As, indeed, I celebrate the fact that our Book of Discipline finds room for this original language of our isles, according it equal respect. This is a small act of reconciliation, helping redress centuries of linguistic oppression and demonstrating to first language Welsh speakers that there is a welcome for them in the Society.
Welsh or English, whichever side of the border we live, in these books – translated but not exact copies – I would suggest there is a metaphor for us all. We first Quakers of the twenty-first century have both the responsibility and the joy of translating the insights and revelations granted to our Quaker ancestors into a rich, dynamic and relevant faith, expressed in and through our lives, at this time and wherever we might live.
