Drab, But Not Dreary

The monastery is surrounded by a sea of Herefordshire mud: reddish brown, glistening and like treacle underfoot. The skies are leaden, and it seems the rain will never stop. The most urgent task of the day is to plug four leaks in the house. I think we could, with justification, call this a drab day; but it won’t be dreary. I don’t mean that we shall be going round with fixed smiles on our faces, denying the obvious. On the contrary, it is precisely by being honest about the weather and everything else that we avoid the melancholy and cruelty that is at the heart of the meaning of dreariness. We acknowledge the truth, embrace it even, and thereby lance any destructive power it may contain.

Today, if you are feeling down in the dumps, out of sorts, wanting to put off till the last possible moment any engagement with others, you may find some comfort in this. This drab, rainy day is full of infinite possibilities — possibilities beyond our ability to imagine or envisage. Grace is everywhere, and it is not dependent on anything but our willingness to receive it.