The Moment, by Margaret Atwood

Lent, Day 20 (halfway!)

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

I can clearly remember, over a quarter of a century ago, looking at these bricks and feeling such pride in being the (co-) owner of them. Me - I own bricks and mortar! And I think we have loved them well over the years, cleaning and perfecting and improving and cherishing, and using to bless many others.

But, of course, Margaret is right - we've never really owned them - they were built and lived in by many before us, and probably, by many after us. Only on loan for a short spell - will we pass them on better than we found them? It's a strangely comforting thought that this house found us, rather than the other way round - that it was meant for us.

Applies to our whole world, of course. And with Ban Ki-Moon in Greenland seeing the evidence for climate change, incredibly relevant...