Gareth Higgins shares his thoughts on the Irish poet and philosopher, and friend of Greenbelt, John O'Donohue, who died on the 3 January 2008.

John O'Donohue was my friend. We had been getting to know each other for almost four years now - a lifetime in our transient world - the very world that John's words sought to slow down. I felt that we had in some sense adopted each other as compadres on the spiritual journey - a 50-something former priest taking into his life a 30-something dissillusioned former evangelical; both of us bound by our common Irish heritage, love of cinema, and fondness for sipping what he insisted on referring to as 'firewater'. We spent many hours talking on the phone, eating together, and engaging in two of our favourite pursuits: whiskey and talking about movies.

Greenbelters know that he had a way with words that made you feel whole again - he created a space with language, both spoken and written, that felt like the home you never knew you were missing, but now never wanted to leave.

His work on retrieving the earthiness of celtic spirituality and helping make sense of it in a postmodern world is so profound that its impact has not yet been fully felt, and it represents something rare in a consumerist, post-Britart culture: a work of art that will outlast its author.

He managed also to write with the utmost seriousness and care for language, making his books the kind that you read slowly, savouring each page; meanwhile, his public talks were characterised by an indelicate Irish charm and the kind of wit that leads to laughter so deep it makes you feel like you belong.

What many Greenbelters may not know is that in addition to his ministry in the Catholic priesthood, and latterly as a writer and speaker, he was a serious environmental activist, helping to spearhead a small group that successfully prevented the despoilment of the Burren, one of Ireland's most stunning natural landscapes. He put his reputation on the line to save something worth preserving, even being prepared to go to prison to do so.

In his activism, as well as his writing and speaking, and most of all, in his life, he wanted people to have shelter from the storms their lives would bring; when I once told him of my own struggles with serious depression and anxiety he clapped his hands together in a gesture of defiance and almost shouted at me: 'May those feckin devils stay far from your door and NEVER TOUCH YOU AGAIN. You are worth far more than you think.' His presence in my life made me believe it.

He knew that we live in the intersection of the sacred and the profane, and John wanted to nudge us in the direction of understanding that holiness has more to do with being aware of the light around us than moral puritanism. In the introduction to his most recent book 'Benedictus', published only a couple of months ago, he writes of how in any given day, some of us humans will experience the shock of being told of the sudden death of a friend. John wanted us to be tender to the fact that the faces of strangers we meet every day all hide secrets that are both divine and tragic. We do not always know who among us is suffering some unnameable torment, nor who is rejoicing at the blessing of a lifetime.

Last night, I became one of the people he wrote about - when I received an email (another manifestation of this world's transience) informing me of his peaceful death, while asleep, on holiday in France. It is bewildering to note that a man who brought so much life around him is dead. But it is also vital to remember that he saw death as a path to freedom. He had spent so much time ministering with the dying - one of the greatest privileges of ministry, as far as he was concerned - that I felt he was, while totally committed to living life to the full, somehow also looking forward to his own death. Not in a morbid sense, but simply because he did believe that our own death is a step forward. He often said 'when you enter into freedom, possibility comes to meet you' - I imagine that he is, right now, experiencing a kind of freedom about which he would - at the very least - write some pretty marvellous poetry. It is hard to begrudge him his death when part of him wanted it so much.

I wonder how he'd describe it. For those of us left behind, well, we miss him dearly, and are grateful for the spaces he opened in our lives. I find it almost impossible to believe that he is gone; but if he was right about his own future, we will meet again.

A BLESSING FOR EQUILIBRIUM.
BY JOHN O'DONOHUE, from 'Benedictus - A Book of Blessings'

Like the joy of the sea coming home to shore,
May the music of laughter break through your soul.

May your prayer of listening deepen enough
To hear in the distance the laughter of God.

And here's another extract from John's most recent book, Benedictus, published just before Christmas. It's our prayer for him:

May there be some beautiful surprise
Waiting for you inside death
Something you never knew or felt,
Which with one simple touch
Absolves you of all loneliness and loss,
As you quicken within the embrace
For which your soul was eternally made.

May your heart be speechless
At the sight of the truth
Of all your belief had hoped,
Your heart breathless
In the light and lightness
Where each and every thing
Is at last its true self
Within that serene belonging
That dwells beside us
On the other side
Of what we see.

Here's what some other Greenbelters said:

'Where John O'Donohue touched me was as an inspirational speaker. His talks held audiences spellbound, uplifted. I felt that his presence and power as a public speaker was the great gift he shared with us. His oratory moved people to places where they'd never been before, opened their minds to new and endless possibilities. The vigour of John's performances will live on with all who heard them, and his devotion to the art of public speaking will continue to be an inspiration to others (like me) who aspire to work the same craft.'
John Davies

'Listening to John O'Donohue at Greenbelt was just stunning: every sentence was one to savour. He seemed to be someone fully engaged with life and honest about both the weaknesses and the potential of our humanity as we go through the process of redemption. I can't help thinking of that saying: 'The glory of God is a human being fully alive'.'
Jenny Baker

'We smoked a cigar together at every Greenbelt. We talked and shared our life purposes over a pint. He made me laugh and think and scratch the surface of my unknown. With words like flowing mercury, he encouraged me to peek through the cracks of my soul, where the light gets in. On the last night at Greenbelt, I bought him a pint and a cigar, but it feels like he has been with me so often since: on flights and underground trains I have plugged into his last talk at least ten times.'
Pip Wilson

'It was the quality of his delivery: lyrical, lilting, lullaby-like. His words had an ease about them. Yet they were always carefully chosen. His thoughts were like music, opening things up: one to the other, us to God, us to our surroundings, to nature, to our own mortality. His hours with books were tempered with hours with people, growing a wily wisdom with a twinkle in its eyes. For me it all comes back to his sense of divine beauty: his witness expanded my sense of both the divine and the beautiful. He made me love more. I thank God for him.'
Paul Northup