Every weekday, when I’m in the office, I now spend my lunch break in the peaceful garden of the church across the road. I bring my trusty folding camping chair and a large umbrella, so no matter the weather, I’ve been able to enjoy this little retreat almost every day. I’m not sure how I’ll handle it when the weather turns colder, but as my grandma always said, “There’s no such thing as the wrong weather, only the wrong clothes!”—and she was a genius.
To most people, this spot might look like just a graveyard, but for me, it’s more of a green sanctuary than a cemetery, so I call it a garden. There’s a beautiful silver birch tree that grows from the grave of George Stevenson, and that’s where I like to sit. I find it perfect, almost poetic, to think of this tree growing from his resting place. In fact, I often imagine that one day, I’d like to become a tree too—perhaps offering shade to someone else who needs a quiet place to meditate.
Now, I realise it might seem a bit grim to spend my lunch hour in what’s technically a cemetery, but for me, it’s the exact opposite. There’s a deep, almost tangible energy in this place that I feel when I meditate. Surrounded by those who lived their lives, I’m reminded of how precious time is. The tree I sit beneath, rooted in the past, brings me a heightened sense of appreciation for the present. It’s not morbid or unsettling to me; rather, it inspires me to live each moment fully, savouring every breath and interaction.
Sitting there, I find myself focusing on the positive aspects of my life, embracing each moment as if it could be my last—but not in a fearful way. Instead, it helps me focus on being present and treating everyone in my life with as much love and care as I can, as if each meeting might be our final one.
A Sanctuary in the Shadows
Each weekday, in the office’s domain,
I seek a peaceful haven, free from strain.
Across the road, a church’s garden waits,
A sanctuary, shielded by its gates.
With folding chair and umbrella, I retreat,
A daily respite, tranquil and complete.
Though winter’s chill may test my resolve,
Grandma’s wisdom guides me, strong and bold.
To others, it’s a graveyard, bleak and cold,
But for me, it’s a sanctuary, I hold.
A silver birch, where George Stevenson lies,
A perfect spot, beneath leafy skies.
I dream of being a tree, one day,
Offering shade to those who stray.
A grim retreat, perhaps, to some it seems,
But for me, it’s a place of sacred dreams.
A tangible energy, a peaceful grace,
Surrounded by the past, I find a place.
Time’s precious gift, I cherish and adore,
Rooted in the present, forevermore.
I focus on the positive, the bright,
Embracing each moment, with all my might.
Not fearfully, but with love and care,
Treating all I meet, as if they were……gone
