Saturday 29 September 2012

Ordinary decency


"Give me a person of prayer, and such a one will be capable of accomplishing anything." 
(St Vincent De Paul)



A couple of days ago, 27th September, was the feast day of St Vincent De Paul, also the anniversary of his death. Vincent was the son of French peasant farmers who became the priest of the disadvantaged and displaced and ultimately the inspiration for the Society of St Vincent De Paul. I'm a longstanding fan of the work of the SVP; an admiration that has been passed along to me from my parents (see earlier post: "Here's to those who turn Concern into Action" March 2012). 
The SVP offered a great deal of support to my Mum and Dad when they fetched up in south London all those years ago with my sister and some suitcases. When I first moved to Brighton, I discovered an SVP shop a stone's throw from my new home; my Mum said it was a sure sign of a "decent" area; for "ordinary people". Along the Lewes Road in Brighton, as in so many parts of the UK now, the ordinary people are frequently very poor, surviving with help and decency from other ordinary people; the essence of charities such as the SVP.


"Prayer for an End to Poverty"
Creator God,
You loved the world into life;
forgive us when our dreams of the future
are shaped by anything other than glimpses of a kingdom
of justice, peace and an end to poverty.
(Christian Aid prayer, 2012)



"La Route est Dure"  Georgia Brown

"The road is hard but I am strong:
my soul is safe, the fear is gone.
I know what I must do with this life,
as the whole of the earth shall be delivered."
(From "La Route est Dure" - original author unknown. 
Apologies for my rough translation!)





*With great admiration and respect for Tom Turnbull and the Lymington Conference of the SVP*


Sunday 16 September 2012

Blog-bullies and the beauty of Bunyan


"Who so beset him round with dismal stories 
Do but themselves confound;
His strength the more is."
(John Bunyan) 





The late John F. Kennedy famously said: "Freedom is indivisible, and when one man is enslaved, all are not free." Sadly, bigotry and war are also indivisible. Vengeful conflict and determined aggression are rarely easily contained. This was one of the points I was striving to make in my post on 9/11.
My post prompted a couple of colourful but depressing messages to me from someone calling himself "Jerry B. Good". I would hazard this is not his real name. Jerry found my sentiments anti-American. This initially upset me a lot: I have friends in the United States and hope to visit the land one day; I'm fascinated by the diversity and optimism of the culture. His accusation was unsettling, but some US friends have since reassured me. The intention of my post was not to be anti any group or ideology, rather to be pro-world and pro-peace.
Jerry informed me that he's passing my details to the United States Federal Bureau of Investigations. I told him I was a big fan of Eliot Ness and keen to liaise with the FBI, particularly if Sean Connery could be involved. Unfortunately, humour and sarcasm don't seem to register with Jerry, or indeed feature in bigotry in general. His return was an unfriendly-fire of abusive name calling: none have any place in a friendly blog and some seem to have confounded Spell Checker. His suggestion that I would look better in a full burkha as a "Muslim-lover" was intended to be hurtful to me as a female, but he does have a point. I do love Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Presbyterians, Pagans... I believe this is what striving to be a good Christian is all about.
Although incensed by my "cowardly allegiances", he hasn't had the blogging-balls to post his comments using the forum provided on here. Jerry should be aware that I do not scare easily: I grew up in a far from cloistered area and now live in another that appears to have been brought to it's knees more by social deprivation and systemic substance abuse than by the call to God. If my response to Jerry seems less than placid, I am always deeply offended by racial and religious bigotry and bullying. I'm also mindful of a story retold by an astute parish priest, about a snake who promised God he wouldn't bite local villagers. Once the village folk became aware of the snake's reluctance to defend itself naturally, they took every opportunity to beat and abuse it. When the wretched creature presented it's sorry self to God, He said: "I told you not to bite, I did not tell you not to hiss!"  
I am, however, deeply sensitive to the sensibilities of others, possibly heightened by news of further atrocities and possible recriminations in the Middle East; I was hurt to think that this little blog might have alienated or upset anybody. I've now barred Jerry from my personal email, although all constructive criticism is heartily welcomed here. I wish him happiness and good humour and hope that he may enjoy listening to Daniel Versteegh's serene interpretation of John Bunyan's vividly evergreen words.
Peace.





"The better part of valour is discretion."
(William Shakespeare)


"He Who Would Valiant Be"  Daniel Versteegh

Tuesday 11 September 2012

On this day, 9/11


"If you and I are having a single thought of violence or hatred against anyone in the world at this moment, we are contributing to the wounding of the world."
(Deepak Chopra)



"For me and my family personally, September 11 was a reminder that life is fleeting, impermanent, and uncertain. Therefore, we must make use of every moment and nurture it with affection, tenderness, beauty, creativity, laughter."
(Deepak Chopra)


"9/11" or simply 11th September; whatever your linguistic preferences or indeed whichever side of the dateline you reside, most people who noted the fall of The World Trade Centre's towers and the related attacks will remember where they were when they saw or heard the news. Eleven years ago today, I was working for a well-known international company, based in the heart of the City of London. I would later learn that one of the company's brightest young American executives had been killed at The World Trade Centre. That Tuesday in 2001, I was on a day's annual leave and had been shopping for my mother. When I returned home, I found her standing in front of the TV, watching the reportage of the attack on the first of the Twin Towers.
At first, I thought she'd stumbled on a high-budget US disaster movie, until I saw the looped news stream on the screen. I remember putting the frozen food and the vegetables on the floor and standing with her. Even back then, her health had not been brilliant and she already used a walking stick due to a hip operation and sever arthritis. But we continued to stand in front of the screen, barely ten feet away from the sofa. We watched the second plane crash, at which point I realised I was in tears, my hand over my mouth. Each crash, each explosion, each collapse was accompanied by commentators and onlookers alike screaming: "Oh God! Oh my God!" When Mum finally managed to say something, she pointed at the screen and said: "This is real isn't it? This is the News?"
There are so many poignant and iconic images from that day and the aftermath. I know countless other people will have felt as broken as I did watching people frantically waving and then throwing themselves out of the windows of the burning towerblocks. Some two hundred people are believed to have jumped, most on their own, some in pairs or groups. Some used curtains or tablecloths or even shirts in a vain attempt to parachute against the pace and scale of the fall. The writer Tom Junod later described these poor souls in such horrific free-fall as looking like people trying to swim up a mountain. Their final dilemma haunts me, as a Catholic who believes you should never resort to taking your own life: I am very claustrophobic and my sense of self-preservation is also very strong; I believe I too would have been hoping for the wings of angels.
After 9/11, America's risk and threat landscapes changed. When "The War on Terror" was announced, the implications of that phrase struck fear in my heart again. Obviously, the very name is a contradiction in terms: war is itself both terrible and terrifying. And when the enemy is unspecified or even transient, any conflict can be extensive, indefinite and, like a heat-seeking missile, launched in any direction. We frequently hear that the world's perceptions of terrorism and war changed after 9/11, the day when ordinary civilians in America were targeted in what they might well have called someone else's war, someone else's terror. In the decade following 9/11, some 25,000 people worldwide have died in known terrorist attacks. During this same period, it's estimated that as many as 100,000 Iraqi civilians have died in war torn Iraq. As journalist and political activist Gloria Steinem points out: "From pacifist to terrorist, each person condemns violence, then adds one cherished case in which it may be justified."

I'm increasingly aware of the many conspiracy theories surrounding 9/11; I feel these and any personal views I may have on the subject should never detract from the fact that 60,000 people were injured and nearly 3,000 lost their lives in those few hours on that day in 2001. Throughout today's anniversary in the United States, there were scheduled Moments of Silence to focus on the catalogue of dreadful events, starting at 8.46 a.m. when the North Tower of the WTC was hit, through to 10.28 a.m. when that tower fell, half an hour after the South Tower.
Since 1987, interfaith media organisation "Odyssey Networks" ( odysseynetworks.org ) has been providing America's religious denominations with a platform to share their stories with the public and each other. Last year, to mark the 10th anniversary of 9/11, Odyssey commissioned network member and Franciscan friar Daniel Horan to write a commemorative prayer. I've reproduced part of it here. His emphasis is on reconciliation with our own pasts as well as with others, rather than future retribution. On this day a couple of years ago, I mentioned to a Social Services colleague that I could remember exactly where and how I first saw the breaking news of the carnage. He sneeringly asked me where God had been on that day: God was right there, waiting to be seen.




"God of Our Memories: A prayer"
At times Your blessing of memory seems like a curse.
The remembrances we carry weigh us down like burdens
rather than lift our hearts to You.
The tragedies, the violence and the sin of our world threaten our ability
to see Your presence among us,
to experience the breath of life You give us,
to recognise the working of Your spirit in our lives.

We know that what it means to be created in your image and likeness
is to be peacemakers and lovers in our world.
May we indeed be instruments of Your peace,
offering love, pardon. faith, hope, light and joy to the world.
May Your spirit move over the chaos of our memories
and renew the face of our hearts as You continue to renew the face of the Earth.
May our memories, the gift You have given us,
recall ones once called enemies as friends
and call to mind those we have loved and lost
until we share with them the joy of Your presence in the world to come.
Amen.
(Brother Daniel Horan, OFM)


"The Tear of Grief" 9/11 Memorial, Bayonne Harbour in New Jersey

"It is my contention that most people are not mugged every day, that most people in this world do not encounter violence every day. I think we prepare people for violence, and I think just as importantly we should prepare people for the definition of being gentle."
(Bob Keeshan)


"Amazing Grace"  Leann Rimes

Monday 10 September 2012

"Diamond"




"The ordinary acts we practice every day at home are of more importance to the soul than their simplicity might suggest."
(St Thomas More)


My sister's mother-in-law passed away last weekend. I've often crossed swords politically with my brother-in-law Gordon, but I know he feels the loss of such a staunch and enduring heart very keenly. She was his anchorage, as my own Mum was to me; in turn, she was immensely proud of his achievements across the world. Evelyn was 97 years old. Gordon's father passed away when she was still quite a young woman, and she married his stepfather, Maurice, more than forty years ago. She would jokingly refer to him as her "toyboy"; he now survives her, aged 94.
Evelyn was a true Yorkshire lass, originally a mill-girl. She never moved away from her beloved birthplace, often called "God's Own County", although she and Maurice managed to travel as far afield as Africa and the Far East to visit Gordon when he was working overseas. Today's funeral service, near to her home village, will be a quiet affair. Gordon maintains that she was an ordinary person who led a quiet life. Yet her extraordinary devotion to her family, Gordon and Maurice and her two step-children, and to her friends and home spoke volumes about her. She didn't ask for much and took nothing for granted. I remember her as a warm and vibrant woman who loved to chat and to dance; her favourite tune was "Lady in Red",  her favourite colour.
Although she was confirmed after his father died, Gordon felt that his mum wasn't really "religious", but she had faith in people, in home and in love, and that's good enough for me. The quietest lives can be a triumph above the fuss and clamour of this world; to live an ordinary life extraordinarily well is what most souls aspire to.

 "Diamond"
An ordinary life
made brilliant by devotion to the everyday, 
the regular, the unseen routines;
the rituals of normality.
A mill-girl
is far from run-of-the-mill
when you see beyond the dusted dress and flustered hair
to the hopes and dreams that may never leave
her heart and hearth
and those of the ones she loves.
A diamond may be the simplest bead
in the scheme of stones and gems:
always born under pressure,
scuffed and buffered into life.
It may gather clouds, unnoticed
in the well-worn wedded ring
on the hand that rarely shakes a stranger's;
but see it capture the sun and stars
once raised to a loved one's cheek;
such a sparkle is never lost,
never hidden for the treasuring;
never faded for the remembering.


                                                                          Gigi
*For Evelyn*

Evelyn & Maurice
God Bless



"The White Cockade"  Kate Rusby





Saturday 8 September 2012

"May The Way Of God Be In Your Words"


"Pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones."
(Proverbs 16:24)



"May The Way Of God Be In Your Words"
May the way of God be in your words;
may your Sorry or Love never be less than meant.
May Thank You never tumble you;
may your Goodbye to me be
without end.
May what remains unspoken
be read in our upturned palms.

                                                                                              Gigi



"The Moon and St Christopher"  Mary Black

Friday 7 September 2012

Goin' down South...

Brighton Beach nuns!

“What makes earth feel like hell is our expectation that it should feel like heaven.” 
(Chuck Palahniuk) 

Across the world's most popular religions, folklore and mythologies, hell has traditionally been seen as an underworld of relentless retribution, exclusion and damnation. Religions with a cyclic tradition often depict hell as an intermediary state between incarnations or levels of recovery; even then, generally located below the earth's exterior surface, with entrances from The Land of the Living. The modern English word "hell" derives from the Old English "hel / helle"; around 750AD, this referred to a netherworld for the dead. An Anglo Saxon variation translates as something hidden, covered up, buried. The Norse Pagans feared a being named "Hel", described as the ruler of their underworld; a place of banishment for all women and some men! In Greek mythology, the underworld of Hades included a deep abyss, a place of torment and torture. Islam warns of pits of extreme ice and deadly cold as well as the eternally fiery ones. Chinese folklore tells of an unfathomable maze incorporating eighteen levels of underworld and pits of filth. The Native American and Inuit cultures also feature terrible netherworlds; with deepening levels of despair and ever more tortuous routes, including flesh-ripping winds and rivers of blood. You get the (not very pretty) picture.
Within Judaism, hell has been depicted as not entirely physical; it has often been compared to the most intense feeling of shame and isolation. The Roman Catholic Church will define hell as "a state of definitive self-exclusion from communion with God and the blessed." My own Dad, in contrast to Monsieur Sartre on his bookshelves, told me that hell was being kept from others, those you loved, as well as being excluded by God. Yet through Dante, Milton and Blake, there is the persistence of the "fall" of beings, the terrible descent, the claustrophobic enclosure; in vivid contrast to the rise skywards to God and the heavens, the freedom of flight and the summit of enlightenment. Little wonder then that many Irish people and other rural folk in Britain and the United States used euphemisms such as "going down" or "heading south" when referring to the fate of Bad People. When I was a very little girl in (whisper it) sarf London, I'm sure I had a notion that sinners were headed somewhere beyond Margate.
Barely a couple of years ago, "South" for me was that hemisphere beneath the Southern Cross constellation, principally my beloved Australia. Called to think about it more deeply, The South would also refer to Louisiana, Tennessee and Texas: places oozing with the blues, with country, with bourbon, hot sauce and hugs; places I have only romanticised about and still long to visit. Those dreams are still very vivid, but these days "going back down south", from whatever angle, means coming home to rusty, glinting little Brighton. Yes, it is indeed geographically somewhat beyond Margate.
Thank you to my dear friend Tom, husband of the equally lovely Ellen, for sending me this joke while Brighton has a late burst of sunshine! Tom isn't as well as he should be or will be at the moment, but nothing deters a saucy sense of humour! Thanks also for the excuse to play Kings of Leon on this blog...
(Much love to both of you. I'll see you soon; get the broccoli in x)


A couple decided to go to south to Florida to thaw out during a particularly icy winter. They planned to stay at the same hotel where they spent their honeymoon 20 years earlier.
Because of their schedules, it was difficult to coordinate their travel together. So, the husband flew to Florida on Thursday, with his wife flying down the following day.
The husband checked into the hotel. There was a computer in his room, so he decided to send an email to his wife. However, he accidentally left out one letter in the email address and sent the email without realising...
Meanwhile, somewhere in Houston , a widow had just returned home from her husband's funeral. The widow decided to check her email for messages from friends and family. After reading the first message, she screamed and fainted.
The widow's son rushed into the room, found his mother on the floor, and saw the message on the computer screen:


To: My Loving Wife
Subject: I've Arrived
Date: July 19, 2012
I know you're surprised to hear from me. They have computers here now and you're allowed to send emails to your loved ones. I've just arrived and have been checked in.
Everything's ready for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you then! Hope your journey is as uneventful as mine was!


P. S. Sure is freaking hot down here!!!!



Photo: Gigi, album

"You can all go to hell; I shall go to Texas."
(David Crockett)

"Back Down South"  Kings of Leon
"If you're going through hell, keep going."
(Winston Churchill)

Wednesday 5 September 2012

True colours


"One Love, One Heart;
Let's get together and feel alright"
(Bob Marley)


My very Irish Mum listened to a lot of my preferred music under sufferance over the years. By her own admission, she had never seen a black person until she was in her twenties: she grew to love reggae, especially Bob Marley and Jimmy Cliff. She described reggae as "Black Irish music" and often said Jesus might well be a little like Marley if He arrived in Kingston, Jamaica, with dreads and a guitar. Due to the geographical and social restrictions of her upbringing, Mum first learned to call all people of any colour darker than her own "darkies" and "coloured folk": she later learned that this could be as offensive as it could be inaccurate! She came to "Rock Against Racism" concerts and learned that every colour, creed and culture could harbour racism. Well into her seventies, a young black guy called her a "white bitch" (during a building dispute involving her home); she corrected him, saying: "I'm not white, I'm Irish. I'm virtually black. Pull yourself together."
I was reminded of this today when I saw this poem. Untitled, it was apparently written by an African child and was nominated by the United Nations as their "Poem of the Year" in 2006.

"When I born, I black.  
When I grow up, I black. 
When I go in sun, I black.  
When I scared, I black. 
When I sick, I black.  
And when I die, I still black. 
And you white fellow, 
When you born, you pink. 
When you grow up, you 
white. 
When you go in sun, you red. 
When you cold, you blue. 
When you scared, you yellow. 
When you sick, you green. 
And when you die, you grey... 
And you calling me coloured? "

"Racism does not have a good track record. It's been tried out for a long time and you'd think by now we'd want to put an end to it instead of putting it under new management."
(Thomas Sowell)

"Hating people because of their colour is wrong. And it doesn't matter which colour does the hating. It's just plain wrong."
(Muhammad Ali)

“Life is one race I never want to win, I'd rather stroll around enjoying the scenery."
(Aditya Chandra)

"Achievement has no colour."
(Abraham Lincoln)






"One Love"  Bob Marley