The Water Carrier

De Simple Silence.

[modifier] The Evening Pianos

Francis Brabazon

Baba spends only 3 to 4 hours a day with us, during which time He usually has me read one or 2 poems, repeating ea. one 3 times — believe it or not so that He can memorize them and quote them in 700 yrs time... One which He has had me read a gd. dozen times is « The evening pianos have faltered into silence — because of love. »

The evening pianos have faltered into silence — because of love. The night trumpets have wailed their last notes of violence — because of love.

How earnestly we pursue our roles in God’s great game — because of love. The refreshing dream... the kiss, ever new and the same — because of love.

Who, if he could bear his own voice, would go on singing — because of love? The end remains covered, else few would make a beginning — because of love.

The difference between being pelted with eggs and showered with roses — because of love, Is less one of talent than one’s fate-share which time discloses — because of love.

We sleep ; sometimes we dream ; and awaken to a new day — because of love. A billion years of wayfaring : yet still we don’t know the way — because of love.

We would not yet even have broken out of the Beast- cage — because of love, If it were not for God-Man’s compassion and holy rage — because of love.

Tomorrow is another day for the battle’s violence — because of love. The few remaining hours of the night are for wine and silence — because of love.

[modifier] Francis Brabazon's Tea

One of the techniques used by Francis, a ploy to bypass excessive intellectualizing, a way of bringing people back to earth from any giddy romanticizing of spirituality, was to rubbish the way in which they had accomplished (or not) some simple task set them. One particular job he liked to give, particularly to those males who tended to sit around waiting to be served, was brewing and serving a cup of tea. Sometimes this did not work out as Francis expected.

Once when a few of us were sitting around the table in the kitchen at Beacon Hill and Francis was discoursing, Lorna Rouse made a pot of tea for us all. Francis was very particular about tea making — the water must be boiling, take the pot to the kettle, never the kettle to the pot etc.

When Francis sipped from his cup he complained that the tea was not hot enough. Lorna having made the tea in the accepted manner, was satisfied that the tea had been hot, but said that she would make a fresh pot. She boiled the water, heated the pot, heated the milk, heated the cup and presented the result to Francis.

Idly talking he took a mouthful and promptly burnt his lips and furred his tongue.

He put down his cup and looked steadily at Lorna for a few seconds then went on talking as though nothing had happened. Not a word was said about the scalding hot tea and he never again complained about Lorna's tea making.

Robert Rouse © 1998 Robert Rouse