Well . . . what do I write about, having just returned from a week’s retreat at Crosby Hall with the Liverpool Stonewater Zen Sangha?
For that week the world changed quite utterly, both inside and outside my head.
The swallows returned to their nests in the old buildings, excitedly chattering, even though their energy levels, after flying in from sub-Saharan Africa, must be horrible depleted. And, back here at home, the chiffchaffs are back too, and singing from exactly the same trees as they did last year and the year before. Is this the same bird coming home, or three generations returning to their birth place?
Inside my head, meanwhile, the triteness of modern consumerism has been replaced by a manic calm that mildly amuses my wife.
I have been wrestling with my demons in long hours of meditation, and with my feelings of obstinate pride and petulance in everyday life.
These annual retreats leave me feeling as though I have had an internal shower and I am now in freshly-laundered clothes.
But the journey home in fast-moving traffic leaves me puzzled and bewildered. What on earth are all these people doing? Where are they going? Why are they so unhappy with where they are now that they have to risk death to get somewhere else?
I know it will be different in another week, and I will, no doubt, join in with this mad frenzy, but, for now I will just sit in the sun, take my dog to the silver river and drink my tea.
When I can, I will sit and think, with the tea at my side and a dog nuzzling into the crook of my arm. We will stare wordlessly at the world. We will not want to be anywhere else.
We call this, Yorkshire meditation.