The meaning of meditation in the pub

and the frayed ends and evangelist dead-ends of friendship

This Friday afternoon in the pub, even though most tables were occupied, was a tranquil experience, and gave me a chance to ponder on life and mediate and contemplate in the company of a couple of beers. Then as if the dogs of the war of words were let slip it began: meditation and contemplation. I contemplated on the passing of time, the loss of loved ones, the roads taken and the roads never trod on, the friends missed and the frayed ends of failed friendship, the words thrown out in haste and the times I had failed to repent of, but also the pub where a friend and I repaired, restored, and revived a friendship. I contemplated the pubs of the cities and towns that I wanted to re-visit and embed myself within and live day to day as if I had been born there and knew its byways and highways, and contemplated the best way to get to Prague, Bamberg, Bologna or Brussels. I contemplated the books I had read and the ones I had yet to read, the books I wanted to write (and those that I never would) and the ones I was actually writing. I contemplated the beer in front of me, the mood that it put me in, the feeling that it provoked within, the well formed bridge of sense, aroma and flavour, the bracing dryness and bitterness in the finish or perhaps it was my second beer where the roastiness of a stout brewed to a recipe that was once just an idea in a brewer’s mind brought me into its compass. I contemplated the people around me in the pub, the friends and the ones I had never seen before and would never see again, the push chair with the rain cover parked at the end of a bench, the two friends sitting opposite each other looking around the pub who seemed as if they were trying to translate the meaning of the first time they had ever visited this pub. I contemplated the love that I felt and the love that would never be returned, the fragility of a friend on the end, the smile and the kiss and the hug of warmth and I contemplated the farewell made outside a railway terminus before going onto find a bus that would take me to the next station in my life. I contemplated my parents, both dead, and did you know that when your brother called you when you were on your way to a pub with the news of a mother taken to hospital in a confused state, but for the first time in over two years she felt fresh air on her face, and then she died, and you also contemplated the end of a life that has always been part of yours. The voice at the end of a telephone that was no longer there. This was the meaning of meditation in the pub — and I sure that there would be more to come.