Tuesday 29 January 2013

Still as stones

"Trees and stones will teach you that which you can never learn from masters."
(St Bernard)

 (Photo: Gigi, album)

"He puts an end to wars all over the earth,
the bow He breaks, the spear He snaps,
He burns the shield with fire:
Be still, and know that I am God;
supreme among the nations, supreme on the earth." 
(Psalm 45 :10, from the Grail Psalter; Psalm 46 other versions)

A naturally tactile person, I really like stones. It might seem strange to say that I can find objects that are almost iconically inanimate comforting, but I find the strength of stillness very reassuring. My pot plants have a stock of stones, pebbles, shells and bits of detritus that I've found or collected over the years. I have stones that have been shaped or painted, others that have their own stories in their natural mouldings or bands of minerals. I also have a couple of fossils. Stones and rocks, like trees, are silent witnesses to history. We dismissively kick the pebbles out of our path: something infinitely small in the scheme of Important Things, yet something that may have been formed over many lifespans and thrown or plucked out of the solid layer of the planet. From the Stone Age, we've used rocks as tools, weapons and other implements; now we manufacture these from the metals we've discovered in the rocks: the blueprint for everyday living. 
I've often asked friends to bring me back stones or shells from various places they've visited; I've collected them myself from Australia, Malaysia, Ireland and various patches in England. I have stones from the garden of my parents' old house and from the former houses of friends and their parents. I got to thinking about this last night after I emailed a friend currently visiting an area of Australia unknown to me, asking her to bring me a stone: far better than a boomerang key-ring This is clearly the same sentimentality which lends me to thinking that strangers are friends I haven't met yet, but there is vague science running through it: I may never get to that beach, forest or mountain; stones bring a little bit of the mountain to me.
I've been looking at some of the bits and bobs I've collected this morning as I water my plants; ironically, I'm "grounded" again in another sense of the word, by a secondary chest infection. My kind but quite hyperactive GP has told me to "keep warm and stay still". I was quite dismayed by this initially. Staying still, particularly when you're self-employed, often sounds like a sentence of imposed idleness. I realise that I need to give my body a chance to repair itself. When I'm fully fit, I have a lot of energy and I generally like to be doing something. It takes some resolve to be still and stay aside from our routine chaos and the daily rush. Stillness also causes others to pause and pay attention; most probably because they're wondering what the hell we're doing; doing nothing. 
When I worked in London, I once watched a woman on a Victoria Line train who was clearly praying in her seat, eyes closed and hands clasped. I was fascinated and very moved by it, but other rush hour passengers weren't as charmed. In a carriage crammed with the usual mix of damp clothing, body odours, unforgiving outfits, thumping personal stereos and eye-flicking newspapers, this woman sitting very still was the centre of attention. The girls opposite her were nudging and giggling and the woman next to me leant over and whispered that she must be "a bit funny". Worst of all, a man who was standing seemed particularly affronted, continually muttering about seats being taken by people who simply wanted to "******* pray". When she got up at the same stop as me, she smiled to let me go first. Very soberly dressed and probably unremarkable looking to a chap on the Clapham Omnibus, or indeed the Victoria Line, her serenity was absolutely stunning.


Surrounded by the stillness of stones this morning, I've been trying to let go of the anxiety of not earning any money at a crucial time of the month. Last year, I acquired a little Grail Translation Psalter; my favourite psalm has quickly become Psalm 45, more usually Psalm 46 elsewhere. "Be still and know that I am God" feels very pertinent and personal at the moment. I need to get well and I know that I will; I know that the bills will get paid: I just have to be still in that knowledge, and trust. On reflection, surely that's just faith, beating under a lot of unnecessary clutter and spluttering.
It's odd that when you wake at dawn with an agenda of enforced rest, you become aware of the rhythms and energies in the minutiae of morning, even within your own front room or back garden: I think I understand what T.S Elliot was getting at, letting the stillness be the dancing. Have a kind and peaceful day.


"There are plenty of ruined buildings in the world but no ruined stones."
("Hugh MacDiarmid" - Christopher Murray Grieve)

"As in nature, as in art, so in grace; it is rough treatment that gives souls, as well as stones, their lustre."
(Thomas Guthrie) 


"Old Pine"  Ben Howard

"We stood
Steady as the stars in the woods,
So happy-hearted,
And the warmth rang true inside these bones;
As the old pine fell we sang
Just to bless the morning.
And we grow, grow, steady as the morning,
We grow, grow, older still;
We grow, grow, happy as a new dawn,
We grow, grow, older still."

Sunday 27 January 2013

Holocaust Memorial Day 2013


Today, 27th January, is Holocaust Memorial Day 2013:
just another day...



"First They Came..."
(Pastor Martin Niemoller)

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.

Then they came for the socialists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.

Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Catholic.

Then they came for me,
and there was no one left to speak for me.



www.hmd.org.uk
(Holocaust Memorial Day Trust)


"We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented." 
(Elie Wiesel)

"Thou shalt not be a victim, thou shalt not be a perpetrator, but, above all, thou shalt not be a bystander." 
(Yehuda Bauer)

"To forget a holocaust is to kill twice."
(Elie Wiesel)


Australia, for everyday and always



"We are all visitors to this time, this place. We are just passing through. Our purpose here is to observe, to learn, to grow, to love; and then we return home."
(Proverb of the Indigenous people of Northern Territory, Australia)

I was in two minds (happens a lot) about writing a post for Australia Day, but I eventually succumbed to my longstanding love for The Lucky Country and a couple of cyber-nudges from two greatly missed Aussie friends. "Australia Day", 26th January, is a national holiday in Australia and the focus for sentimental and enthusiastic celebration for Australians abroad. 
Previously known as "Foundation Day", the holiday marks the landing of the First Fleet: the eleven ships of the British Admiralty, sent to establish a penal colony at the place that would become Botany Bay, New South Wales. Captain James Cook had explored and "claimed" the land some seventeen years earlier, and the Dutch had clocked it a hundred years before him. But it was Captain Arthur Phillip who, after some forays into the surrounding areas, "took possession" of the land around a geographically welcoming cove in the name of King George III on 26th January, 1787. Phillip named their colony after the then Home Secretary, Thomas Townsend - Viscount Sydney.
The name "Terra Australis Incognita", Latin for "Unknown Southern Land", dates back to the Roman empire, and legends of the mysterious continent evolved with medieval geography. Yet human habitation of the land began about 50,000 years ago. The ancestors of today's indigenous Australians were among the most ancient peoples of the earth, and the vast land was home to at least two hundred and fifty tribes, with their own languages. When the Europeans invaded, which is what we did, the Aborigines were hunter-gatherer peoples, with complex, oral-based cultures and a tradition of story-telling and celebration. Spiritual values were strong and binding to the land itself; there was a reverence for nature. "The Dreamtime" encompasses not only the story of the creator spirit and creation itself but also births the animist beliefs that have survived tens of thousands of years. 

The stories of The Dreamtime shaped Aborigine laws and customs, incorporating art and dancing. The emphasis was on belonging to and showing respect for the land that nurtured them; Australian soil is known to be the oldest on the planet, and the driest. Yet it remains a painful fact that the Federal Government of Australia would not recognise Aboriginal title, the traditional ownership of any land, until 1992.
National research in 2009 confirmed that ninety percent of all Australians polled felt it was  important to recognise and include the indigenous culture as part of the Australia Day festivities; however, the commemorative date of the celebration is still divisive. Although many indigenous Australians celebrate Australia Day, "Invasion Day" protests occur almost every year. Moves to change the holiday to another date may well cause further rifts in the population, at a time when the emphasis is on recognition and reconciliation.
I love Australia: I've been fortunate enough to visit the Lucky Country five times in the past twenty years, although not since 2008. From day one, I felt almost seduced by the country; I long to go back and familiar sights on various antipodean based relocation series find me sniffling in front of the telly. It helps that I'm uncommonly fond of large spiders, snakes and reptiles, but the colour and vibrancy of the country seem to draw energies out of my usually quite shy personality. In Australia, I'm able to indulge my penchant for trees, rocks and soil without feeling at all unfeminine. I get to climb up things, simply because they're there. I can wear as many colours as I want, how I want, with bangles up to my armpits. Every second person you meet really does have an Irish grandmother. In fact, the blend of immigrant cultures has borne it's own aspirational kinship. Some of the good friends I've known from Australia have been from very mixed race backgrounds and others have extended families that include indigenous Australians. The Celtic heritage is instantly reassuring, but I've always been fascinated that it sits so deep and easy with the art and stories of The Dreamtime, which are simultaneously unsophisticated and intricate. 

The relevance of the landscape and it's supported nature is unashamed, even when Australia boasts the twelfth largest economy in the world. The presence of nature and evolution itself is palpable, even in the cities. In a country that now paints itself as not particularly religious, the bedrock itself seems invested with spirit and wants to sing about it. The last time I visited, I made it to the red, dusty centre: Alice Springs and Uluru were National Geographic-pretty but the ancient power of the landscape was breath-taking. The photos at the bottom of this post are mine; I was able to wait before dawn to see the rocks of Uluru change colour as the sun rose. I found it profoundly spiritual to witness new daybreak, almost at the dateline, in such prehistoric terrain.
So I have mixed feelings about celebrating Australia Day, but I have no qualms abut celebrating Australia, as a country and as a people. I've written this post with an affection and empathy that I hope is obvious: there's no intention to offend anyone who calls Australia home.
I've included two blessings here that have evolved from the optimistic indigenous Christian movement in Australia. The country has no state religion, but the Catholic Church has benefited from post-war multi-cultural immigration and now has the largest affiliation. The Catholic education system is still the largest non-government educator; similarly, Catholic Health Australia is the largest non-government healthcare provider. However, as social journalist Caroline Jones noted: "Aboriginal people are a steady beating heart at the centre of Australian spiritual identity."
I'm mindful of the almost biblical battering the elements have unleashed on Australia recently: some of my friends have been sweltering and living in fear of wildfires; others were dealing with torrential downpours and the threat of tornadoes on this 26th January. My thoughts are with them. God bless Australia, everyday.



"A Prayer for Reconciliation"
Father of all,
You gave us the Dreaming:
You have spoken to us through our beliefs.
You then made Your love clear to us in the gift of Your Son.
We thank You for Your care:
You own us,
You are our hope.
Make us strong as we face the problems of change.
We ask You to help all the peoples of Australia to listen to each other and respect our cultures.
Make the knowledge of You grow strong in all people,
So that You can be at home in us and we can make a home for everyone in our land.


"A Blessing" 
To all who walk this land, 
May you always stand as tall as a tree, 
Be as gentle as the morning mist,
As strong as the earth under your feet. 
May the warmth of the campfire be in you;
And may the Creator Spirit of the Southern people always watch over you. 


 
(All photos: Gigi, album)

"This is the land of dreamings, a land of wide horizons and secret places. The first people, our ancestors, created this country in the culture that binds us to it." 
(Hetti Perkins)

"Keep your eyes on the sun and you'll not see the shadows." 
(Indigenous Australian proverb)


"The Holy Grail"  Hunters and Collectors


Saturday 26 January 2013

A funny thing happened on the road to Damascus

"Nobody can hurt me without my permission."
(Mahatma Gandhi)

( 9th February:I first posted this a couple of weeks ago and retired it a few days later. I've now edited it with a long pen: I've tried to be a bit more objective.The last thing I want is for this blog to be dismissed as bitter; not a feeling I care to hold onto, whether on paper, on the 'net, or in life).

25th January was Burns' Night; it was also the feast of St Paul's conversion to Christianity, while en route to Damascus to persecute Christians. Many of us will use the phrase "road to Damascus moment" to refer to the turnaround of something, however trivial in our version of events, at some point. Given the current volatility in and around the Syrian capital, most of us are blessed not be travelling on a road in or out of Damascus in any direction. 
I had a little Damascus moment that night while I was sitting here in the middle of a local power cut, writing about my poet-crush Robbie Burns, glancing back through my last couple of posts. A few days earlier, I wrote that I wanted to grow to be a lively and loved old lady. Looking at Phoebe Hessel's story, surely that's a life well lived: to demonstrate conviction, courage and great love; to maintain your wits and your vitality beyond youth; to display independence and self-respect and earn the affection and respect of others. I have no idea what religious beliefs Phoebe may have held; it could be said that she spent the early part of her life cloaked in deception. Yet to my mind, she was essentially true to herself, even when the Fifth Foot Regiment spent nearly two decades assuming she was just one of the lads, who had a couple of off days each month! 
When I recently attended mass in another parish, the priest happened to speak about the taking of a person's "good name" and how insidious and demoralising that can be. As a former prison chaplain, he'd seen how the system can break a spirit by replacing their given name with a serial number. It can dehumanise a person; bringing someone's name into disrepute can be similarly destructive.
I have no true idea if I have a particularly good name; I'm reluctantly aware there's already an element of arrogance in professing to be comfortable with myself and calling some things I've done achievements. I have a wilful naivete in some areas, but I'm wise enough to know that if I can see my own insecurities when I'm standing on them, then anyone stepping back to find fault wouldn't need binoculars.
I've recently had a profound reaction to an older lady"bad-mouthing" me: I've worried endlessly about what awful things might be said about me in my absence. I've beaten myself up about why this individual might dislike me; as if there's a universal obligation to like me. My reaction splutters as much about my own insecurities as this lady's animosity may say about her's. 

It's human nature to worry when people say things about you that are untrue. Unfortunately it's also human nature to gossip. The word "gossip" has itself been much maligned, originally meaning "Godparent" or "familiar acquaintance". It hasn't always been seen as bad practice: in Shakespeare's time, a gossip was someone who sat through a woman's childbirth, talking to provide reassurance and comfort.. Gossip can often promote a sense of belonging , bonding by projecting another party as the outsider; gossip always bears an element of attention seeking. Whenever we humans get territorial, we're generally unsure of where we fit in.
As for me, I know it's not unusual to seek assurance when you feel wronged, but I realise that my whingeing to others about attacks on me hasn't exactly been polishing this woman's name-plate either. Psychologist Alfred Adler said that:"It is easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them."  When we hold onto grudges, we want to see the depth of our own hurt reflected in the remorse of the offender. Both my parents felt you shouldn't let the sun set on an argument; my Dad told me that if you went to bed with someone else's venom in your veins, you could only wake up feeling as much poisonous as poisoned. Someone may try to diminish me due to their lack of self esteem, but my own insecurity that sends me clamouring for reassurance is hardly attractive or inspiring. 
My own tiny Damascus moment was far nearer to home than the strife riddled Middle East. There was no blinding flash of light; in fact, there wasn't even electricity for some part of my little street that evening. Unlike St Paul, enlightenment didn't blind me for three days and normal power has been restored. Most of us do want to be remembered for a good life well lived, like Phoebe. We want to be liked. Sometimes, we might even resort to tarnishing another's nameplate to make our own appear that much brighter. People often attack others to defend a perceived vulnerability in themselves. When you're feeling low, it often seems easier to drag something or someone down than to raise your head above the parapet. Bitchiness, general unpleasantness, consumes a lot of energy and time; wouldn't you rather be laughing / loving / living?
It's no longer desperately important for me to know why anyone dislikes me, especially if I consider how little kindness they may have for themselves. My clever Dad also used to say that those who really know you will soon realise when someone else doesn't know you at all. We're all a little fearful of what a bright torch to the dark corners of our psyches might reveal: at the very least, mine are full of chocolate crumbs, heels that are too clackety to wear in church, drafts for this blog and little quirks and faux pas that have my name written all over them. I want my name to sit kindly on lips and ears; ultimately, that name can only be irreparably tarnished by my own actions, not by the words of another. 
And bitterness really is best served as chocolate.


"To speak ill of others is a dishonest way of praising ourselves. Nothing is always a good thing to say and often a clever thing to say."
(Will Durant)

"Part of every misery is, so to speak, the misery's shadow or reflection: the fact that you don't merely suffer but have to keep on thinking about the fact that you suffer."
(CS Lewis) 

"Every man alone is sincere. At the entrance of a second person, hypocrisy begins." 
(Ralph Waldo Emerson) 

"Speak ill of no man, but speak all the good you know of everybody."
(Benjamin Franklin)

"For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never truly alone." 
(Audrey Hepburn)




 "I'm On My Way"  The Proclaimers

Friday 25 January 2013

King's speeches


"Faith is taking the first step even when you can't see the whole staircase."
(Martin Luther King Jr.)

How many things that made you cry when you were just sixteen, with joy, anger or sadness or from sheer movement of the spirit, would make you weep like a child again today? 
Due to snow, sickness and work, I'm quite behind with my posts. I sincerely and particularly wanted to write something for "Martin Luther King Day", traditionally observed as a holiday across the United States on the third Monday in January since 1986. On 15th January this year, Dr Martin Luther King Jr would have been eighty four years old; instead, on 4th April, the world will remember that it is forty five years since his assassination. This year, MLK Day fell on 21st January, coinciding with the inaugural celebration of U.S. President Barack Obama's second term of office.
I dithered about posting this on Monday: I appreciate that some of my friends from the United States are not supportive of Obama's economic policies; and many Catholics are affronted by his views on homosexual partnerships and women's rights to choose abortion. Personally, I found it both pertinent and poignant that the first ever black president of the United States was being sworn in for an historic second term, with bibles belonging to Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King. I was further moved that Obama deferred to King in his inaugural speech, that all men must be a source of hope to the poor, the sick, the marginalised, the victims of prejudice:

"Not out of mere charity, but because peace in our time requires the constant advance of those principles that our common creed describes; tolerance and opportunity, human dignity and justice. We the people declare today that the most evident of truth that all of us are created equal -- is the star that guides us still; just as it guided our forebears through Seneca Falls and Selma and Stonewall; just as it guided all those men and women, sung and unsung, who left footprints along this great mall, to hear a preacher say that we cannot walk alone; to hear a King proclaim that our individual freedom is inextricably bound to the freedom of every soul on Earth."
When I was fifteen, a few months before my father died, I was sporting two long plaits, an array of anti-racism and anti-this-and-that badges and a permanent petulant frown. My Mum asked Dad to talk some sense into me. She was worried that I was drawing attention to myself by going on rallies and antagonising local fascist groups (I'm sure the National Front in south London found my ribboned plaits particularly irritating). She wanted me to steer clear of anything political, be a bit more "girly" and throw myself more wholeheartedly into the school dances that the nuns organised for their young ladies with the boys from the local Catholic boys' academy. My Dad was a very wise man: instead of talking to me about anything calling itself "politics", he spoke to me about natural equality, justice and goodness. He told me that the late Senator Bobby Kennedy and Dr King were two men with very different backgrounds and voices who shared the same spirit and vision. This became an essence of equality for me.
Baptist minister King became one of the world's most powerful natural orators. My Dad had the transcripts of two of King's most quoted and iconic speeches; "I Have a Dream", from 1963, and the sadly prophetic "Mountain-top" speech, given the day before his death in 1968. He told me to read them and try to understand that real justice had more to do with gentleness and faith than with aggressive sloganeering and political clout. They made me cry. They didn't stop me attending angst-ridden rallies, shouting at the fascist groups in Lewisham High Street (before running away) or being needlessly uppity with the local police, who were only ever caught in the middle. But they touched me in a far deeper and more lasting way than any teenage-targeted rhetoric or subsequent trendy bandwagon cause.
After hearing Obama's own emotive yet punchy inaugural speech on Monday, I decided to listen to King's speeches again, now with the (sometimes dubious) benefit of You Tube. After all these years, the same words made me cry again. Some might say I haven't grown up much: I would say my finest dreams, like those of my father, haven't aged.






"Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that." 

"I have decided to stick to love...Hate is too great a burden to bear." 

"Let no man pull you so low as to hate him."

"Never, never be afraid to do what's right, especially if the well-being of a person or animal is at stake. Society's punishments are small compared to the wounds we inflict on our soul when we look the other way.” 

“Of all the forms of inequality, injustice in health care is the most shocking and inhumane." 

"I agree with Dante, that the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in a period of moral crisis, maintain their neutrality."

"In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."

"Only in the darkness can you see the stars." 

"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." 

"It is cheerful to God when you rejoice or laugh from the bottom of your heart."

"A man who won't die for something is not fit
to live." 

"I have a dream that one day little black boys and girls will be holding hands with little white boys and girls... 
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the colour of their skin but by the content of their character... I have a dream today."
(Martin Luther King Jr.)


" I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free / One"  The LighthouseFamily


The female of the species

"When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth."
(From "Warning", Jenny Joseph)


Many thanks to my dear friend Tom for sending the following funny, which I've had to adapt ever so slightly... Rudyard Kipling wrote beautifully about "The Female of the Species being deadlier than the male", but I want to grow into a lively and loved old lady: Jenny Joseph's poem could have been written specifically about the fabulous older girls in this corner of the world.

All women should live so long as to be this kind of lady!
Toward the end of Sunday mass, the priest asked: "How many of you have forgiven your enemies?"
Eighty percent of the congregation raised their hands.
The priest repeated his question. Everyone responded this time, except one small, elderly lady.
"Mrs Neely? Are you not willing to forgive your enemies?"
"I don't have any," she replied, smiling sweetly.
"Mrs Neely, that is very unusual! How old are you?"
"Ninety eight," she replied. The congregation stood up and applauded her.
"Ah, Mrs Neely, would you please come down front and tell us all how a person can live to be ninety eight years and not have an enemy in the world?"
The little sweetheart of a lady tottered down the aisle, faced the congregation, and said:

"I outlived the b******s."


In the oldest burial ground attached to Brighton's oldest surviving church, the original parish church of St Nicholas, there is a listed tombstone dedicated to one Phoebe Hessel. Phoebe had become something of a Brighton celebrity by the time she died in 1821, at the age of 108. She was actually born in Stepney, in East London, where her life is commemorated with plaques and in at least two street names.
Sources have claimed that her father was a soldier who took the infant Phoebe with him on missions. Certainly Phoebe developed a fascination with the army at an early age: her sex prevented her from becoming a soldier herself. As she became a young woman, she disguised herself as a man, to enlist and serve alongside her soldier lover, Samuel Golding. As part of the British Army 5th Foot Regiment, she served in the West Indies and Gibraltar. Her sex remained undetected for an unbelievable seventeen years, until both she and her man were wounded at the Battle of Fontenoy in 1745. Phoebe was by now 32 years of age. Rumbled, the couple were discharged and able to marry.
Samuel and Phoebe settled in Plymouth and had nine children; eight died in infancy. The surviving son would later die at sea. After two decades of marriage, Samuel died. Phoebe refused to submit to the life of an ageing widow. She moved to Brighton and married local fisherman Thomas Hessel. She was 80 when Thomas also passed away. Phoebe was granted three guineas from the parish funds and bought herself a donkey and cart, as you do when you become an octogenarian. To support herself, she took to selling fish and seafood around Brighton. Eventually, she would become well known and loved as a vendor of gingerbread, apples and citrus fruits on a street corner close to the Pavilion. She was forced into the workhouse but again refused to submit to age or circumstance; she discharged herself when she was 93.
The Prince Regent himself was so impressed by her character and longevity that he sustained her remaining years by granting her a pension of half a guinea a week. She would attend his coronation parade in Brighton six months before she finally died of natural causes. Her Grade II listed tombstone has been maintained by the Northumberland Fusiliers, the modern successors to the army regiment that would not officially have enlisted her. In true Brightonian style, a city bus has been named after Phoebe Hessel; possibly, this quirky city's oldest known cross-dresser.


Not quite Phoebe's donkey cart.

 Phoebe Hessel, possibly wearing purple.


"A beautiful woman may be an accident of nature, but a beautiful old woman is a work of art." 
(Louis Nizer)

"Every age can be enchanting provided you can live within it." 
(Brigitte Bardot) 


"Oh Mary Don't You Weep No More" Bruce Springsteen

Wednesday 23 January 2013

Never drive faster than your Guardian Angel can fly...

Photos courtesy of the fabulous Sisters of The Poor Clares in Malta. Go safely with that tractor ladies... x


Some of the fabulous Poor Clares in Malta.

"Natives who beat drums to drive off evil spirits are objects of scorn to smart Americans who blow horns to break up traffic jams."
(Mary Ellen Kelly)

"The Bible contains much that is relevant today, like Noah taking 40 days to find a place to park."
( Dr Curtis McDougall)

"Y' know, somebody actually complimented me on my driving today. They left a little note on the windscreen: it said "Parking Fine."
(Tommy Cooper)

Sunday 20 January 2013

Brighton Rock, meringued

"Nuvole Blanche (White Cloud)"  Ludovico Einaudi

I managed to get out and about a bit in the snow today; in my wellies, with a pocket full of cough sweets and two spare handkerchiefs. I didn't achieve milk or courgettes, certainly didn't cover anything like the stretch of the photos in this post; nor did I take my camera: the photos of Brighton and Hove below are copyright to our local rag, The Argus. Although I sometimes take issue with the paper due to leading and divisive reporting, the Argus online has been extremely informative and supportive in recent days, providing local transport, travel and schools updates. It's also harnessed the talents of amateur and professional photographers from across the city to capture our snowfall with candour.
I have no illusions about Brighton or Sussex in general, and I'm quick to point out the city's tendency to tarnish and rust and go on the turn, but I've also become fiercely fond of it. I often think the Pavilion looks like a huge and fantastic dismantled wedding cake; with a another swirl of snow on snow, various landmarks and  iconic Brighton sights look like they're made out of meringue. Like icing, or powder and paint, snow can hide a multitude of scars and defects: I didn't see any rough-sleepers today and I pray this means they're all relatively comfortable and warm in the city's shelters. 
Brighton may well wipe her nose on her sleeve, but she still proudly wears her heart on it. Self-consciously gaudy and mismatched in the summer, Brighton at the moment looks shyly pretty but a bit confused in white, like a born-again virgin bride of a certain age. Shame about my courgettes and milk though.