Mindfulness in Chapel
If you’ve visited the Chapel lately, you may have noticed that it is home to an eclectic collection of items. Here is why. Immediately upon entering the Chapel one is greeted by a tower of bubbles lit by a colour-changing light. Turning the corner the most obvious change is the presence of several large beanbags (appropriately blue in colour), but closer inspection will reveal small items; a water feature, a box full of sand, and a table with colouring pencils and a blank sketchpad. These are all part of an installation of spiritual exercises, designed to offer peace and calm to anyone – regardless of religious beliefs – who is struggling with the pressures of exams. The quiet Chapel is an ideal space for calming down frantic thoughts and taking a break from reading, writing, and revising. The sand try is there so that someone can draw their troubles in the sand and then wipe them away; the sketchpad is to turn hands away from rapid-paced exam script to a more enjoyable activity; and the water feature is there to provide a gentle noise that can help ground our thoughts. It’s certainly worth visiting.
The use of the natural sound of water flowing is reminiscent of some Pembroke poets who were inspired by nature. Take, for example, the following poem by Thomas Grey:
Ode on the Spring
Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Their gather'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water's rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,
In fortune's varying colours drest:
Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic, while 'tis May.