The comfort of the familiar

How strange these times are. I've just watched the late news, with its confusing statistics and the assertion that several thousand positive Covid test results went missing (I think) so that everything is even worse than it seems; before that we were told confusing news about President Trump, who may or may not be on the point of leaving hospital when we all know that the danger point in this illness is reached after about a week. I listened, drowsily, and then came to choose a photo, write a journal, as if nothing was wrong. Anywhere. We all miss family, friends, hugs, social contact - and yet we shrink from it, because we've learned that these things are currently potentially dangerous. But, like the citizens of Pompeii in Hilary Corke's poem Pompeii, we continue to paint our atria, though we may not pay formal visits to the homes of friends, because what's to be done? 

What's to be done is what we did today, I suppose. And I think we're fortunate, because our church has returned to public worship - ours (the Scottish Episcopal Church in Dunoon) and the RCs. The other churches are still conducting only online services. The other day I joined an anxious discussion on a post in a church Facebook group: should we be curtailing our service times to ensure that our elderly flocks are protected? We're not allowed to sing, sure, but should we also be omitting bits of the liturgy to let them away in 30 minutes? 

What a sad conversation to be having. It struck me with great force this morning how important it is in times like this to have familiar routines to remind us that life doesn't have to be entirely grey. A good number of this morning's congregation, including me and Mr PB, are in our 70s; there were at least two octogenarians there today. Everyone wore a mask, everyone sanitised their hands every time they moved, it seemed. And they moved only when directed to, quietly and in order. No-one sang except for the cantor singing a communion hymn. There was organ music before and after the service, and after the solo hymn. There was the unhurried beauty of a liturgy well done, there was communion. For many there it was the big occasion of the week - a chance to put on some respectable clothes and be somewhere on time. No-one was in a hurry to leave. It was familiar and beautiful and people felt comforted by it. 

Another familiar aspect of life - my life anyway - was a walk in unexpected sunshine and warmth on the road between the fields to the south of the peninsula. The scent of the sun on the wet vegetation was sweet and all-pervasive; the autumn colours - you can see a wonderfully coloured tree in my extra - glowed against piled-up cloud over the hills. My main picture was taken when we returned to the shore, where we'd left the car: the hills of Arran, among which we were hiking two Sundays ago, were shrouded in thick cloud while we basked in the sunshine that had raised the temperature on the car thermometer to 26ºC. It was beautiful, and entirely familiar. And yes, it was comforting.

And I couldn't help thinking about the hapless Trump, wondering if he was frightened, thinking about the stress of keeping up appearances for your public when you're my age and feeling bad. I have not an iota of sympathy for the man in normal circumstances, but ...

What comforts him?