Sipping green tea from mismatched mugs, perched on floral-cushioned wooden chairs of varying heights, this weeks post meditation session was being guided by the softly-spoken, chucklesome irishman Alan, intent on discovering our deepest fears and dreams over hobknobs.
As is customary, one by one we laid the burning issues and thoughts of the past week on the table (though being a Buddhist group this is played out with large, meaningful, significant pauses between each one, with nothing hurried, and endless thumb twiddling): still not being able to sell the house, increasingly uncomfortable backpain, a weekend trip to Scotland, waiting for the dreaded AS results (though that is another story, shudder), the usual day to day trivialities.
Then it came to Peter.
'Well, this week Bernadette and I have been mostly expressing our solidarity with the Archbishop of York in his fasting and praying for those involved in the conflict in the Middle East... We have been doing this by reducing our food intake* and chanting on the hour, every hour, every day. We chant the mantras 108 times, hoping to bring healing. I just can't imagine why more people aren't doing it.'
No Peter, me neither.
*Which seemed to comprise of Bernadette not having one of her usual two cups of tea a day. It is apparantly giving her a bit of a headache, poor love.