“There is no path to peace; peace is the path.” Albert Einstein.
Are we at war? Yes-no-maybe? What seems clear is that, as a nation, we are not at peace. But what about us—can we personally be at any kind of peace in these times? In these times I feel that we all need a piece of peace to nourish us and quell our troubled hearts. And to have any peace at all, to be reassured that there is a lot of basic human goodness still alive, we need pockets of resistance—small places where peace can remain possible. Earlier this month I experienced such a pocket. It was like a piece of treasure, it was precious, it was at the Carrock Fell Race.
Everything about this race was lovely, even the deep deep bog which engendered a bit of camaraderie as competitors were at the ready to yank each other out. It wasn’t one of those events with loads of hype and expensive online entry. You could turn up, fill in a form with a pen, hand over five pounds in money and for this you got to run a beautiful race with friends old and new, you got challenge and encouragement, you got tired muscles and muddy legs, you got joy and love and tea and delicious homemade cakes. There was no electronic timing. There were names on stickers on a results board and as well as prizes for the fastest runners there were prizes for those who arrived on bikes.
The race organiser, Natalie, even wrote a poem and read it out at prize-giving. Yes, poetry too—and all this made me very happy and even though I am a slow racer these days that does not really matter. Because all this has very little to do with ego and performance. It has to do with community and connection and a shared love of running, sometimes as fast as possible, over our wonderful fells. To quote from the hopes expressed in Natalie’s poem—
“That runners cross the finish
With muddy legs and smiles
Laughing in the sunshine
After all those climbing miles”
We did! Thank you, Natalie, and everyone who was involved, helping and running. Because this was not just a little fell race. It was not just a bit of escapism on a Sunday. It was one of those precious pockets of peace where we remember how to feel the goodness in ourselves and in each other and where our faith and hope in life is nourished. I think there are thousands, millions of such pockets, all over the world, where people come together. It may be music, poetry, knitting, singing or any other activity involving participation which brings folk together and supplies the connection. That connection of being a part of something lovely and bigger than ourselves—which is hard to fully name but we know it when we feel it.
And how will these pockets of positivity weigh against the heaviness of bombs? I do not know. But I do know that we need these pockets of peace, and if we lose them then we will lose the hope of a civilised society. I am not ready to surrender yet. I will keep on looking for ways in which I can sew a stitch into our pockets. Small things can feel futile—but they are not.
