Tuesday 21 May 2013

Flame




"If you are what you should be, you will set the whole world ablaze." 
(St Catherine of Sienna)

There's a shade of flaming red which is by far my favourite colour. My front room, my bedroom and my little kitchen glow full of variations of it. Even the once staid iron bench in my garden has been painted what Hammeriite choose to call "Hot Red". It occurs to me that I wrap this shade around me when and where I want to feel warm, sure and never far from a smile. For a long time, I liked to see others a-wearing-of-the-red; it was always my mother's favourite colour as a fiery Aries; but I didn't feel it suited me. I certainly didn't feel confident enough to wear it when I was in my teens.
Sunday, the Christian feast of Pentecost, I wore bright red quite happily, although I had work for most of the day. I even wore my red beret when I left the house but thankfully none of Brighton's weekend anarchists mistook me for the military police; not in sandals anyway. These days I might not actively describe myself as confident, but perhaps I'm more forgiving of myself. I love that Pentecost, celebrating the birthday of Christian Church, is all about confidence. I love to see the flame red priests' vestments and church banners at Pentecost. When I was little, I remember calling Pentecost "Whitsun", with images of the Holy Spirit as a white dove. To be honest, I was never quite sure if the name derived from the colour white or from the wisdom imparted by the Holy Spirit. I prefer the emphatic red of the flame and exuberance of Spirit descending on the Apostles and followers of Jesus; like a first baptism of fire.
I think faith can be exuberant and it should be celebrated. When I was at school, I thought I had to be  more pious to be a good or even average Catholic. I always felt I was a bit too ready to dance about or laugh or ask an awkward question. When I was about fourteen, my friend Kristina and I were larking around on the little path that ran between the back of our school and the parish church that also served the convent. Having fallen in love with the London production of "Jesus Christ Superstar", we thought we were rock-opera stars in the rough; given to inventing and singing our own (probably very inappropriate) arias, wherever. Raucously. With air guitar. And air drums. 
On this particular occasion, our school's parish priest came out of the presbytery to see what the racket was and smiled at us. I later apologised and said I was trying to be a good Catholic but that I wasn't quiet or well behaved enough. Father Harvey probably wouldn't remember saying this, but he warmly told me that faith could be quiet, it could be silent, but it should never ever be dull or boring. 
These days, Kristina is all growed up and living across the world with her family. I try to limit my singing and dancing about to the company of friends' children or the privacy of my own kitchen or bathroom. However, anyone still reading this should refrain from singing along to Springsteen whilst slicing a vegetable stir-fry: you will lose a bit of index finger that will hurt like hell and add nothing to the flavour. And never feel tempted to jig about to The Pogues when you're in the shower: you will surely slip and fall out of the bath, knocking yourself out on the bathroom sink; causing yourself huge embarrassment as well as extensive bruising; you will totally traumatise next door's cat who was peacefully keeping watch on the landing.


I do feel more grown up about my faith now. I'm never embarrassed to say I'm Catholic and I try to wear a cross or crucifix everyday; clearly, it is jewellery in that it's a form of adornment meant to be seen. Personally, I would rather wear what I consider beautiful earrings with crosses rather than beautiful earrings with some other symbol or design that means nothing to me. Some clerical vestments and pectoral crosses are stunning. And I'm not fussed about why Goths wear their crosses, just that they seem so damned miserable (rather than damned). Mine make me happy.
I've been to evangelical churches with friends in London and felt moved by the joyfulness and inclusivity of the services and the congregations. Sunday's Pentecostal edition of "Songs of Praise" from Brighton featured very high-spirited musical praise from the Church of Christ The King. I haven't been to one of their gatherings, but I'm aware of them as the founding church for the global family of evangelical "New Frontiers" churches. I can appreciate that their informality and buoyancy appeals to many Christians in this city. 
Brighton is a cauldron bubbling with new-found philosophies, new-age mysticism and a liberal dash of neo-paganism. The national census in 2011 proclaimed the city, alongside Norwich, as the "most Godless" in the UK. Regrettably, I assume many of the wonderfully diverse Brightonians who display infinite faith in their fellow man may not pursue the route of that trust in any formal way. 
This was the second consecutive year that Songs of Praise at Pentecost has been filmed in Brighton. Both editions featured the words and music of Stuart Townend, a banjo playing pastor and prolific writer of modern hymns. I already know a little about the work of the Reverend Martin Poole, a non-stipendiary Anglican priest and the founder of Brighton-based Christian art and events group "Beyond". For the past couple of Decembers, they've organised thought provoking art installations along seafront beach-huts as a contemporary advent calendar. They periodically organise sculptures and light installations around the city; I became a fan of their large gaudy neon crosses when I first moved here.
Rather more quiet but no less enthusiastic was the feature on the Catholic Wellspring Community. A group of secular Brightonians who apply the rule of St Benedict to their daily lives, individually and in couples. They also meet as part of the congregation of St Joseph's Catholic Church,  mentioned in this blog earlier this month. The community members were very gentle but obviously passionate about their faith. 
The word "Pentecost" simply originates from the same in Ancient Greek for the fiftieth day. A movable feast only in accordance with Easter, it's traditionally celebrated on the fiftieth day after the feast of the Resurrection. Pentecost always corresponds with the Jewish harvest festival of Shavuot, which occurs fifty days after the celebration of Passover. 
This Jewish Pentecost commemorates Moses receiving the commandments on Mount Sinai. Although these were traditionally literally set in stone, I can appreciate the similarity with the more fluid outpouring of spirit to Jesus' followers. Christians believe that the Apostles were touched by the Holy Spirit's tongues of fire; in turn, symbolically enabling them to speak in many tongues to people far and wide. The giving of the commandments is also an intended universalism, with many Jews celebrating Pentecost as the true birthday of Judaism.
I enjoyed the Pentecostal Songs of Praise, even though it didn't feature a Catholic service. I think it relished the diversity of the city and also the many tongues of faith here. You can still witness high spirits in Brighton which have nothing to do with distilled beverages or other chemicals and everything to do with grace. Father Harvey was spot on; faith can be the ultimate mood enhancer. And yes, I did really intend to include an acoustic version of "Firework" by Katy Perry in this post: listen and you might just hear the song.


"Prayer is the oxygen of the soul."
(St Padre Pio)

"Firework" Katy Perry (acoustic) 

"If you want a love message to be heard, it has to be sent out. To keep a lamp burning, we have to keep putting oil in it."
(Mother Teresa)


info@beyondchurch.co.uk 

www.cck.org.uk 

www.wellspringbrighton.org.uk 



Saturday 18 May 2013

Angelina Jolie


"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."
(Anais Nin)

Courage, the force of mind, body and spirit that enables one to face difficulty, pain or danger, has many faces. In line with popular opinion, I've long considered Hollywood actress and celebrity mum Angelina Jolie to be one of this world's most beautiful women. Her face and figure have been globally feted and the fervent interest in her longstanding relationship with idolised actor Brad Pitt has given birth to the generic name "Brangelina". Angelina Jolie is a much publicised mother of a little rainbow tribe. Having adopted three babies from Cambodia, Ethiopia and Vietnam, she's also given birth to three children with Pitt.
Undoubtedly wealthy and often over exposed in many ways, her past holds shadows of depression, drug abuse and self harm. But in 2001, she began visiting refugee camps in regions such as Cambodia, Pakistan and Sierra Leone; she became a Goodwill Ambassador for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees that year. More than a decade later, Jolie is now a Special Envoy for the UNHCR, noted for not shying away from war zones.
Widely known for her role as the improbably proportioned and impossibly athletic video game heroine Lara Croft in "Tomb Raider", I've often felt she's an under rated and affecting actress. If you've not yet seen "A Mighty Heart", based on the memoir of murdered journalist Daniel Pearl's widow, I would urge you to watch it. In spite of the documentary style and harrowing truth of it's story, the film is gracious and tender; Jolie's central performance is stripped of vanity.
On 16th February this year, Jolie underwent a preventative double mastectomy, at the age of thirty seven. Having undergone genetic testing due to her family health history, she'd learned that she's inherited a defective BRAC1 gene which hugely increased her chances of developing breast or ovarian cancers.
Jolie's mother, actress and socio-political activist Marcheline Bertrand, died at the age of fifty six after an eight year battle with ovarian cancer, following breast cancer. Bertrand's own mother Lois died at the age of forty five; she had also been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Jolie's inherited risk of breast cancer before the removal of her breasts was 87%; she still has a 50% chance of developing ovarian cancer and reportedly intends to undergo a preventative oophorectomy, the removal of both ovaries.
In the UK alone, ovarian cancer affects nearly seven thousand women each year; the fifth most common cancer among women. Difficult to recognise due to the vagueness or absence of early symptoms, it's become known as a silent killer. Breast cancer has been the most common cancer in the UK for the past fifteen years, accounting for a third of all cases of cancer among females by 2010. Current statistics show that one in eight of us will be diagnosed with breast cancer.
Jolie went through her three months of treatment and surgical procedures, including reconstructive surgery, discreetly and beyond the glare of the fame monster. She chose not to publicise her dreadful situation and huge decision: not for her the "celebrity diary of a private hell", plastered across entertainment and fashion mags. Instead, she published her own concise and calm piece in The New York Times last week. She encouraged other women with similar histories to make informed choices and highlighted their options. She also stressed that gene testing and preventative treatments should be the right of all women, whatever their background, location or means: the cost of BRAC testing remains largely prohibitive in the United States and unavailable in many other parts of the world.
She's explained that her priority has been her responsibility to her family, her life partner and children: "And they know that I love them and will do anything to be with them as long as I can." Jolie also confirmed that she feels no less of a woman after the surgery; she feels empowered and confident of her femininity.
When I was at school, I was horrified by the story of St Agatha, an early Christian martyr and now the patron saint of breast cancer sufferers and of all martyrs. Persecuted and finally killed for her Christian faith and chastity, her tortures included having both breasts cut off. Even in my skinny, pig-tailed pre-pubescence, I can remember shuddering when reading about this. In recent years, two very different but equally gorgeous female friends have opted to have breast reduction surgery for both health and cosmetic reasons. Hearing of the pain and discomfort they've endured made me thankful that I'm not more generously endowed.
Around ten thousand woman a year in the UK alone now opt to surgically alter or augment their breasts, sometimes to pneumatic proportions, even in the light of the risks of scarring, rupture, toxicity and systemic disease. As breast cancer is now the most common of cancers, breast augmentation has become the most common cosmetic surgery performed in the UK today.
I do believe that beauty shines in the eye of the beholder; if you have an eye to look for beauty, it will surely find you. Angelina Jolie has clearly been blessed by Mother Nature, yet her own genetic make-up may have held something of a curse. I've been very moved by the grace with which she's risen to a such personal challenge with very particular implications for one in the public gaze.
Real grown-up beauty, like courage, truly is more than skin deep.
 
 
"Life comes with many challenges. The ones that should not scare us are the ones we can take on and take control of."
(Angelina Jolie)
 
www.ovarian.org.uk

www.breastcancercare.org.uk
 

"In a Manner of Speaking" Nouvelle Vague (from the soundtrack of "A Mighty Heart")





Sunday 5 May 2013

The merry month

"But winter lingering chills the lap of May." 
(Oliver Goldsmith)

It seems that Mother Nature and Father Time-of-the-Year are going through a rough patch. The darling buds of May were looking a little pinched yesterday. Just as I dig out a flowery frock and ditch the stockings, the temperature drops away and the heavens open. All in time for the May Bank Holiday of course. I have a little rule that the heating and hosiery go off at the end of March and stay off until October. I like to think it means I'm quite hardy: as the only one of my friends to develop pleurisy a few weeks back, I appreciate that could translate as "foolhardy".
The ice-cream vans have started up in Brighton; although the vendor I saw yesterday afternoon was huddled in his van with a woolly beanie hat on. Sadly, I think his sales pitch of buying a large lolly because "in this weather, it'll last all day" may prove self-defeatist.
Along with the annual Brighton Festival, all arty, colourful and clever, the daily Brighton flesh-show has started too; always colourful, not so arty and in this weather really not that clever. Yesterday I saw all manner of tiny clothing, sometimes on not so tiny frames. In some instances, I felt certain garments were missing altogether, but decided it was best not to get too involved. There are indeed some serious Bodies Beautiful in Brighton, of every gender; but goosebumps and raw extremities are never a good look.
Although our council is famously Green and the political undercurrent definitely red, Brighton is starting to turn orange. Various shades; from a peachy coral anticipation to a tasteful terracotta and on to a hardcore, whites-of-their-eyes tangerine. The sun-bedding and self-tanning are up and running; sometimes literally, depending on the volume of the fake-tan. I'm too fearful of burns and streaks for any of this: I've grown fond of my freckles and I stay pale in the hope that I'll one day become interesting. 
If we can pick up a tan without sun then we can surely raise a smile without it... Smiling faces were notably as lacking as outer garments yesterday. We set such store by external heat to shine and bask in and optimistic summery clothes and colours to parade in. All too lightly, we forget the warmth of our own hearts and humour and from the kindness of others. A smile tends to suit and fit everyone; it can be far more attractive and revealing than any amount of exposed flesh.
I went home and donned leggings and a jumper to weed the garden a bit and chivy it to try something new; twigs are bit passe now. By dusk, my bare ankles had turned a pale aquamarine; not particularly hardy but possibly intriguing. Up with the seagulls this morning and an early sun has again retreated behind Brighton's unevenly banked skyline. It's probably waiting to see what everyone's wearing today.




"I Saw You Blink"  Stornoway



Wednesday 1 May 2013

The workers' saint


"St Joseph was a just man, a tireless worker, the upright guardian of those entrusted to his care. May he always guard, protect and enlighten families."
(Pope John Paul II)

The celebration of the first day of May has ancient origins. There's an obvious relationship with the Celtic pagan festival of Beltane and also with the Germanic celebration of Walpurgis Night. Although I'm sill unsure how or why the humble St Walpurga, an English missionary who helped to convert pagan Germany in the eighth century, has lent her name to a witches' sabbath. As the western world became Christianised, many popular secular holidays merged with Christian feasts. Through the 20th and 21st centuries, neo-pagans have resurrected and restructured many of the old traditions, including May Day festivities. 
As a secular celebration, "May Day" may be best known for maypole dancing and the crowning of the May queen. In pre-Christian Europe, the first day of May was also seen to be the first day of summer, in relation to the midsummer solstice in the second half of June. The Romans celebrated the feast of the goddess Flora at this time, the aptly named queen of flowers and plants. The Roman Catholic Church observes May as the month of the Virgin Mary; with statues of Mary often being adorned with crowns and wreaths of flowers.
May Day has had a tradition of community based festivities across the British Isles down the centuries. Towns and villages celebrated the fertility of the soil and the livestock. Seeding and sowing had usually been completed by this time of year and it would be convenient to allow farm workers and labourers a holiday. For some, May Day gained infamous "communist" associations. As the Catholic calendar was reformed, Pope Pius XII instituted the feast of St Joseph The Worker in 1955. Yet the the saint's patronage of workers and grafters has an older history.
Everything we know about Joseph originates from scripture. We know he was a working man and of limited means. Yet the gospels highlight his lineage from David, the king of Israel. I have a fondness for Joseph because he was very much an ordinary Joe, yet he displayed immense compassion and faith when he realised that his young bride to-be was already with child; supernaturally conceived at that. He initially considered ending their betrothal but feared for Mary's safety if she was shamed as an adulteress.
Clearly, Joseph loved Mary and would also love Jesus as his own, leaving his home and family to protect the child. The gospels note that the people of Nazareth referred to the boy Jesus as "the son of Joseph" without other distinction. Fittingly, Joseph is the patron saint of fathers; also of the Universal Church, of the dying, of social justice, and of course of carpenters.
The Christian Church has always been proud to emphasise Jesus' background as the step-son of a carpenter, probably apprenticed by Joseph himself. The humanity and humility of Jesus through Joseph's guardianship are evident; also the fulfillment and often sheer drudgery that can be part of vocation. Like his father on earth and in heaven, Jesus was a creator. I've always found it poignant that the carpenter's boy would ultimately bear his own wooden cross to be nailed to the Roman tree of execution.
I'm no carpenter, but I've loved working with discarded bits of wood or cut-offs to distress and tart up into driftwood-style shelves, frames and bits and pieces. I'm most fond of my "carpenter's crucifix". I think folk thought I'd finally lost it when I said I wanted to make the corpus out of nails and upholstery tacks, with a crown made of picture wire. A couple of years ago, if anyone had told me I would be thinking of making a crucifix at all, I'd have thought they'd gone large on the altar wine. But it seems to suit the little house; fashioned more from love than skill, as many precious things are.

(Photo: Gigi, album)

Located a well judged stone's throw away from me is the tall, Gothic Catholic church of St Joseph, at the foot of Elm Grove and just off the Lewes Road. Both roads have long been densely populated: they're areas frequented by locals rather than tourists. In the heart of uni-campus land, much of the Victorian housing is rented out. 
In the 1860s, a Mission Chapel stood on the site now occupied by St Joseph's. The current church is a Grade II listed building. However, due to outstanding debts, the church wasn't dedicated until 8th May 1979; a few days after the feast of St Joseph the Worker and a hundred years to the day since building work began.
The Lewes Road and surrounding areas are necessarily entrepreneurial and hand-to-mouth communities. Home to the local branch of The Society of St Vincent de Paul, the church is just a short wander away from one of the SVP's charity shops; traditionally sited in deprived areas. The Brighton shop is as well used as it is well stocked. St Joseph's today serves an increasingly multi-cultural congregation of local workers; those with jobs and those without.


www.stjosephsbrighton.co.uk

"If I Had a Hammer" The Seekers (version)

"In Joseph, faith is not separated from action."
(Pope Benedict XVI)