Out the back of the Moot House (as if a circular building could have a "back", but let's go with it), down the gravel path that leads past the asparagus garden, beyond a cunningly-crafted screen covered in wisteria and Virginia creeper, there is a blighted place.
No light really gets there. It's a place in the stasis of half-darkness and good intentions. It's a place of broken hearts and fractured imaginations. It's the Dumping Ground of Trinitarian Analogy.
In the "recycling container", there's a family tree, where dotted lines are used to try to imply Jesus and the Spirit are like brothers and yet not quite. Various triangles, with different lengths of sides, drawn onto many sheets of paper. Yet more circumscribed triangles. And numerous empty bottles of "3-in-1 shampoo".
In the food bins, there's a pile of eggs, a pie in 3 slices. And a Gala pork pie. Those eggs again, always eggs. The shamrock grows wildly on the giant lumps of Playdoh dumped on the ground (and yet still it's all the same Playdoh). Meanwhile, in a low-pressure area where the light of the Sun (photon, wave and yet still one light) and of the fire (heat, light, the fuel source) never reach, the Triple Point of Water endlessly sublimates in its three-phase equilibrium. Watch you don't trip over the electric fires. You could get your feet tangled in those coils.
Meanwhile, over in the Library this evening, Keith is scratching his head and scribbling. He's down to preach tomorrow. I can hear some mutterings about "manager, players, team spirit". I can see his Panini World Cup sticker book will be taking the trip down the path, past the asparagus garden tomorrow morning.
It's a sad, desperate, frightening and yet deeply boring place, the Dumping Ground of Trinitarian Analogy. Boring because it records that same, endless attempt to express the inexpressible and make sense of Mystery. I wouldn't advise you go there. It's damp, dark and dismal. Any light you think you find is illusory. Enjoy the mystery. The mystery is real.