There’s a field near where I live. I like to walk there, to get into the green, to potter along the path. For the summer it’s been left to its own devices and now is in mellow meadowy fullness. It’s true to say that the field is full of grass but truer to say it is full of grasses, for the closer you look the more varieties of grass you discover in colour and height and leaf and flower. Yet, when the wind blows, all bend in the same breeze. Maybe that could be the hope for us, that we, celebrating our infinite variety, would recognise that we stand in the same field and may learn to bend together in the same breeze.

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