I recently spent five days at The Krishnamurti Centre, a non-denominational place of stunning natural beauty and retreat. Founded to celebrate the work of the philosopher, speaker and writer Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986), the centre is located a few miles from Petersfield. in the glorious depths of the Hampshire countryside. I was in need of peace and beautiful surroundings – somewhere for my tangled thoughts to slowly stretch themselves out, freeing my mind from their incessant jostling.  It is a place I go to to unwind, to return to my sense of unsullied wonder at the gifts of Nature, as well as to my own true nature. Back to the hurly burly of life, I came across some notes I jotted down on my phone on one of my many rambles.

The water falls incessantly on stone. A waterfall,  but if you didn’t see it you’d think it was heavy rain – the sort that just tips down from the sky, as though God were emptying his bath, I used to think as a child. The sound is soothing. The sun is shining, as incessantly as the water. A drought they say, but the sound of water confounds this statement.
Can a place be so beautiful in all senses as to make one want to be a part of it permanently?  That word stretches on into the distance, carried over the yellow stubble of freshly harvested fields to the line of oaks beyond other fields and unseen roads. The only permanence is now arises in my mind. Quite so.

Later I will travel back to the place I call home, that is shortly no longer to be that. Where will I go? It is both at once scary and exciting. I have the chance for new ventures or to seek to recreate the same. I am older now, I tell myself; not so resilient. Be safe, go the route others try to map out for you. They want you tucked up in the neat bed of their minds. Well I won’t do it! What is a life if we plan for its end?

Life is, in fact, like the water falling, the sun shining. Incessant. Insouciant.