Friday 28 June 2013

The man and the supermoon

"Everyone is a moon, and has a darker side which he never shows to anybody." 
(Mark Twain)


"Man and the Moon", by Tina Palmer


"Moon River" 
(Johnny Mercer) 
Moon river wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style someday. 
You dream-maker, you heart-breaker, 
Wherever you're going I'm going your way. 
Two drifters off to see the world; 
There's such a lot of world to see. 
We're after the same rainbow's end, 
Waiting round the bend: 
My huckleberry friend, 
Moon river and me.

"Moon River" Audrey Hepburn ("Breakfast at Tiffany's")

Having finished work very late at the beginning of the week, I wandered off down the High Street in the wee hours, looking for the moon. It seems there are a lot of folk meandering up and down the Lewes Road at 1.30 in the morning, searching for the moon and other things. The moon, perhaps sensibly, was hiding behind a blanket of mist. From my own little street, this larger and brighter than usual moon was barely evident. I live in a low part of Brighton - probably in more ways than one - with steep banks of housing and buildings on either side. A full perigee moon always appears much lower on the horizon: it took three days until the June "supermoon" was on the wane before I could get a photo of it actually over the rooftops in my road.
Some stunning photos from across the world have been taken of the supermoon. I've posted some of them here; the last two are from Brighton; the final and by far the least impressive one is from my doorstep. I was determined to capture a bit of the supermoon: coinciding with the summer solstice and the full moon of St John's night, it seemed like a hopeful beacon. When I was little, my Dad of course told me there was a man in the moon who would know if I wasn't sleeping. Years later, I learned that The Man in the Moon is actually a traditional phenomenon as well as being a sentimental childhood essential.
I hadn't realised that for centuries across the northern hemisphere, the dark areas of the moon, the seas, in contrast to the lighter highlands have been perceived as human features. Maybe we need the moon to show a friendly face: earth's closest neighbour in space, it's comparatively large for a natural satellite orbiting a planet of this size. The moon is the brightest sight in our heavens after the sun, although in fact it's surface is dark, like coal and with a similar reflectance.
Old European tradition tells of a man being banished to the moon for some misdemeanor: Christian folklore depicts him as the man caught gathering sticks for firewood on the sabbath. Another Christian legend depicts him as Cain, doomed to circle the earth in exile, as depicted in Dante's "Inferno". In Norse mythology, the moon was a man in a horse drawn carriage, passing across the sky to escape a great wolf; in the Germanic and Roman cultures, he was also a thief of various descriptions, stealing away over the earth before daybreak.
In some eastern cultures, and particularly in Chinese tradition, the inhabitant of the moon was sometimes thought to be a stranded goddess, with only "moon rabbits" for company. Even today, Chinese children are shown how the features of the moon may represent the moon rabbit, rather than a man's face.
A prominent feature in our night skies and with a regularity of phases, the moon has gained a comforting familiarity since ancient times. The moon's orbit and gravity draw the ocean tides and the length of our days. Scientists believe the moon was formed shortly after the earth, from the fallout of debris and matter after we collided with something the size of Mars. The moon remains the only other celestial body that man has set foot on. Since the United States' Apollo 17 mission in 1972, only unmanned crafts have visited the moon, some confirming the discovery of lunar water ice - the moon's surface can't support liquid water. The Outer Space Treaty declares the moon to be free to all nations to explore for peaceful purposes; a sentiment that perhaps isn't honoured here on earth.
The moon has had a huge influence on folklore, language and the arts. Initially pushed into learning to play the piano when I was little, the first piece of "proper" piano music I grew to love was Claude Debussy's "Clair de Lune". As a fan of Mark Twain, I love the imagery of the song "Moon River" with even a "huckleberry friend". The song features in one of my favourite films, "Breakfast at Tiffany's", with Audrey Hepburn at her most adorable: half Irish and half Belgian and a bit kooky; what's not to like? I love the innocence of Hepburn's film version of the song, although Andy William's velvety voice was a perfect match to the poem and the melody. (I'd recommend looking up the film if you're not familiar with it, or have forgotten how magical it is).
The regular and distinct phases of the moon have made it a convenient and fascinating timepiece throughout history. The waxing and waning of the moon formed the basis of many of the most ancient calendars. The lunar cycle is approximately thirty days long and the English word for "month" and it's cognates in other Germanic languages originate from "the moon"; Germanic cultures relied on lunar calendars before any solar one. The oldest depiction of the moon is thought to be a rock carving at Knowth in Ireland, some five thousand years old.
In some ancient cultures, the moon was personified as a deity or supernatural entity. It has a long association with hopefulness and luck but also with emotions, irrationality and even insanity. The word "lunacy" obviously derives from the Latin name for the moon; even Aristotle, who wasn't short on marbles himself, believed the water component of the human brain must be affected by the moon's tidal power. Today, it's understood that the moon's gravity is too slight to affect an individual's brain function. Tales of increased accidents, homicides, suicides and psychiatric admissions at full moon persist but with little or no consistently supportied evidence. Certainly the euphoria and despair ill-met by moonlight on the Lewes Road most nights owe more to the influences and addictions of this world than the orbit of any satellite.
The full moon has always been emotive for me because it is simply beautiful, as distant and mysterious as it is predictable and symmetrical. My mother used to have me make a wish on the full moon, always starting "Dear God"; wishes, prayers all headed in the same direction. She also told me to turn coins over in my pocket at the new moon for prosperity. Walking down the main road in the first hours of the new day, I couldn't see the big moon for clouds and houses, but I did find the baby moon of a ten pence piece twinkling on the damp pavement.
The moon is a benign companion, to children, drunks, dreamers and doers. It's constancy and luminosity assuage childhood nightmares and adult loneliness. The magic of the night is part romance and part uncertainty and moonlight and moon-shadow will paint pictures that the day cannot sustain. As with everything serenely beautiful, it has an inexorable power, enough to pull the oceans from one shore to another. James Joyce spoke of the moon's "inscrutable tranquility". The same moon that appears to keep pace with me on my walks home at night along the Level will be lingering along with lovers by the Seine or guiding a lost backpacker somewhere unpronounceable. Even when we see the moon wane, it's size and shape remain perfectly the same. Every night, the moon is, generally, where we left it, just like our dreams.


"Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." 
(Buddha)






Starlings across the full moon at Brighton pier...

... and my own less spectacular photo of the this week's supermoon over my street. 



"Clair de Lune" ("Moonlight")  Claude Debussy

"Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human.
Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections." 
(Tahereh Mafi)





Saturday 22 June 2013

"Blessed be"


"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy."
(From "The Desiderata", Max Ehrmann)


Yesterday, 21st June, was the Summer Solstice. A solstice occurs twice a year when earth's semi-axis is most inclined towards the sun, when the sun reaches the highest position in the sky as seen from either of the poles. The summer solstice occurs on the day that has the longest period of sunlight outside of the polar regions, although the solstice itself is effectively an instant in time. The word derives from the Latin for sun-stopping - "solstitium".
The June solstice marks the first day of the summer season in the northern hemisphere. On this day, the sun doesn't rise precisely in the east, but rises north east and sets to north west, enabling it to be in the sky for a longer period of time. In the southern hemisphere, the June solstice is the shortest day of the year, when the sun is furthest from the equator.
The solstice has remained a special moment in the annual cycle of the year since Neolithic times. The solstices and equinoxes were essential to the development and maintenance of calendars. The seasons and weather played a huge role in people's lives, particularly in the cultivation and harvest of crops. Over the centuries, the June solstice has been a time of ritual, celebration and festivities. In parts of Scandinavia and the Baltics, it's the most important holiday time after Christmas and New Year's Eve.
Originally a pagan holiday, in Christianity the mid-summer solstice became associated with the birth of John the Baptist, whose feast occurs on 24th June: the gospels imply that John was born six months before Jesus. The celebration of St John's Eve evolved from the ancient festival of Midsummer's Eve; summer solstice. On this night, people gathered "magical" golden-flowered plants such as Calendula and St John's Wort, still renowned for their healing properties. Bonfires were traditionally lit to guard against evil spirits, and witches were said to be seen gathering or meeting with other mystical beings. In the 7th century, St Eligius warned the newly converted people of Flanders against pagan solstice practices, saying there should be no dancing or leaping on the feast of St John the Baptist.
 

Across Europe there are various locally adapted solstice celebrations around the feast of St John. In Ireland, many towns have midsummer carnivals and in rural areas bonfires are still lit on hilltops for St John's Night. Bonfires are also lit on the high hills of Cornwall. The week-long festival "Golowan" is celebrated in Penzance and runs from the Friday nearest to the feast of St John: the festival was originally called "Gol-jowan", after the saint. Midsummer festivals are celebrated in many parts of Scotland, notable the Scottish Borders. St John's Eve traditionally has a mystical significance and inspired Sir Walter Scott's well known ballad of that name.
No self-respecting neo-pagan would pass on a trip to Stonehenge at summer solstice. My blogger friend Annie was there to see the break of day yesterday, along with 20,000 similarly spirited people. Annie is a lovely girl who says she is a "leaped" rather than lapsed Catholic: she says she's jumped back to the celebrations of nature and Spirit which existed before Christ was born but don't contradict the existence of the Creator or of the Son of God. I have a lot of time for Annie. I've always felt an affinity for Desmond Tutu's very simple vision of "The God who existed before any religion"; who was not concerned that a deeply spiritual man such as Gandhi was not Christian because He was not a Christian. When Annie emailed to say she was going to Stonehenge, I asked her to say a couple of prayers for me at dawn; she said the Our Father, the Hail Mary and the Gloria Patri. Once a Catholic, eh Annie?
Stonehenge is now known to have been a Neolithic burial place some 8,000 years before the birth of Christ. By 3,000 B.C. the henge was a sacred place and also a mighty sundial and celestial calendar. I've only been there once; the stones were already roped off from visitors, but I felt it was a common holy ground. There are further celebrations planned there over the next few days: this June's "supermoon" is seen as auspicious by many. The moon's own orbit of the earth is oval, so at certain points it can come much closer to us. Scientists say that supermoons are the result of coincidence; this solstice weekend, the supermoon will coincide with the full moon on St John's Eve. The moon should be thirty percent bigger and therefore much brighter than usual. The next supermoon will be in August 2014.
When I email Annie, I sometimes end with "Blessed be" instead of the usual "God bless" to good friends. I appreciate it's a combined greeting and farewell used by many pagans, but I comfortably use it as a Catholic. It's primarily a blessing, a wish for goodness; what could be lovelier than that? I see a lot of so-called New Ageism around Brighton, often cultivated in the shadowy place between despair and hopefulness. There are a lot of younger people who seem drawn to the old ways of wicca, almost in rebellion against Christianity and mainstream religion as a rite of passage.
I have no problem with the term "wicca"; in fact, I respect it's origins in the old Saxon and Norse words for wisdom. Wiccans, also giving rise to the name for witches, were originally those who knew about the land, the elements and the stars. The forefathers of herbalists, homeopaths, astronomers, chiropractors, acupuncturists, spiritual healers.... Sageness, intuition and mysticism gave way to suggestions of sorcery. Everything light will have it's dark side if people look for shadows, whether that be to hide in or to expose others.
I tend to mention my Scottish granny Barbara because I often think of her, although I never met her. Her way of knowing things, apparently passed from her own mother, was accepted by Mum although she worried that I'd inherited it. In short, it spooked her, but it's never disturbed me. When I was at convent school, some girls messed around with teenage spells and even ouija boards; the latter in particular horrified me. I'm quite clear that I should never have any truc with them: I don't believe you should ever take it upon yourself to call people, past or present, or material things to you. What your heart knows and your soul recognises are within you by the grace of God. We should protect our own wisdom and instinctive knowledge; I appreciate faith as the deepest intuitive feeling a person may have.
The solstice marked a double-whammy of firsts in Brighton. English Heritage unveiled a Blue Plaque yesterday at Tyson Place, just down the road en route to the pier, commemorating Doreen Valiente, called the Mother of Modern Wicca. This is apparently not only the first time  a Blue Plaque has been notably dedicated in the field of paganism and wicca, but also the first to appear on a council block. Only in Brighton blah blah. It's been said that pagans were the original Green Party; perhaps they'd have responded to the recent refuse dispute in a more emphatic and organic manner.
I don't know much about old Doreen. She was originally from south London, born to religious parents; she absconded from her convent school when she was just fifteen. The Anti-witchcraft Act of 1736 was repealed in 1951 and she then spoke very publicly about being a witch. She distanced herself from any malicious works and was keen to emphasise that wicca shouldn't be employed to create darkness or misery, stressing that it had nothing to with the "black  arts" or Satanism. Apparently her neighbours at Tyson Place regarded her as a "white witch" and a good person. I see no harm in Doreen's Blue Plaque. Perhaps I could have one for wittering.
Personally, I don't believe in the strength of black magic, unless we're talking chocolate. I don't believe in curses, but I understand the great harm caused by ill will and malice. I don't believe in sorcery but I believe in blessings. I believe that prayers are wishes put to God and that miracles are magical. I believe that each soul has it's own history and it's own path. The universe is a vastly beautiful place created primarily to unfold the mysteries of love to us: nature is God's work and therefore sacred. I believe we carry the seen and the unseen within us as well as all around us. None of this seems to dilute my own Catholicism. I feel sure that Annie's prayers at the henge on the solstice were intended for and heard by the same God I pray to at church or in my garden.
The creatures I've heard and fleetingly seen moving around my garden at dusk are not the Little People but in fact some tiny toadlets. They seem to have taken up residence in spite of Ginger from next door and Jonathan Seagull and his hooligan mates. I've been told by a delighted Annie that they've come because they sense protection; apparently toads are very loyal creatures. So I've now set about making them a small waterhole and a toad-house. In return, they seem to be naturally dissuading East Sussex's tenacious slugs away from my garden. This morning one of the little toads burped at me before he scurried away to shelter. I think it was a greeting. Blessed be.
 
*To Annie, Croce and Dempsey the cat*
  
 
 
Summer Stolstice Prayer
(Anonymous)
In gratefulness we lift our eyes;
With loving thoughts in heart,
We give thanks for all things good.
For blessings the Creator imparts.
Let our hearts be ever glad.
For beauty that abounds
And gives a taste of heaven's glory
When summer comes around.

"Crystal" Stevie Nicks
 
 
"Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.
"No-one else has access to the world you carry around within yourself; you are its custodian and entrance."
(John O'Donohue)
 

Friday 21 June 2013

Muck and brass

 
  
The photo above is from a another side-turning off the main road here in Brighton, very close to my own little street. We are set off one of the busiest thoroughfares for local business in the city; within easy walking distance of the Palace Pier, the Pavilion and the Brighton Wheel. Not that this makes any difference to the immediate scenery: there are similar mounds of household and commercial rubbish and recycling across Brighton and Hove.
This post is really an open letter to Brighton and Hove City Council; the content has been emailed to them. Our refuse and recycling teams have been on balloted strike, as we approach the most crucial time of the year for seaside establishments. A wildcat strike in May resulted in a backlog of rubbish that couldn't possibly be cleared before the work to rule and current strikes commenced. In my particular area, our wheelie bins were removed just before the strike started, as part of a pilot scheme for communal bins. I would have welcomed this move, having rented in an area with only communal bins when I first moved here. But they were emptied everyday. When such large, focal collection points are left uncleared, the results can be seen in these pictures. Talks with the unions started in February; surely the pilot scheme should have been postponed if there was even the threat of disruption to services? The council initially suggested we take our rubbish home, but they had no (printable) suggestion as to where we should now put it.
The road cleaners have been part of the strike. Brighton's famously prolific gull population, who must think Christmas and Armageddon have arrived all at once, are skilled and ruthless binbag-rippers. Our pavements have been strewn with bits of pizza, fish and chips, vegetable skins and leftovers, much of it beginning to rot. Some bags clearly contain disposable nappies and sanitary items; also the dog poo the council has trained it's residents to scoop and wrap up. We have a wily and determined fox population too, and we've been warned that infestations of rats and maggots could follow.
Most people in Brighton are thankful that June has so far not been "flaming": probably one of the few parts of these isles that would rather forgo a long hot summer than suffer the accompanying long hot smells. However, the council and police warned residents about other flames: an arson attack would be disastrous with rubbish piled so high in front of houses and shops. The newly placed communal bins were meant to be strategic for flats and multi-resident housing, bus stops and food outlets.
Most of us have only a vague idea about the background to the strike. We know that the workers are concerned that changes to council staff allowances could effectively result in average pay cuts of £4,000 a year. The council say this is unlikely and that any changes have been brought in to safeguard existing jobs. But this is not a "poor" council: Brighton and Hove increased our council tax by just below the government capped maximum this year; the same as the previous year.
Sympathy for the working man and woman has been stretched as summer in the city so far has being uncomfortable for residents and visitors alike. Yet recent media polls showed that more than half of all residents questioned felt the council must be at fault. The strikers have not being paid and their families are living, eating and playing next to the same piles of rubbish as the rest of us. The council seemed to be in continual talks with the unions but at perpetual standoff. It didn't help the council's case that their representatives claimed things were moving encouragingly while the GMB, Britain's General Union, called the situation one of stalemate and animosity.
Having elected Dr Caroline Lucas as the UK's first Green Party MP in 2010, Brighton and Hove City Council is also Green by slight majority. Their mandate focuses on sustainable environmental policies and fair trade and business initiatives. Caroline Lucas was until very recently also the leader of the national Green Party; she stepped down from that role to concentrate on her parliamentary duties and local issues. To date, she hasn't made a comment about the refuse crisis. 
Today, B and H Council and the GMB have issued a joint statement, announcing that the industrial action will be "temporarily" suspended while new proposals from the council are considered. It's claimed that the proposed changes to services will be beneficial to residents as well, although of course the residents haven't been consulted with or even told what these changes will be. The council website does however point out that it's against the law for council tax payers to withhold any part of their bill due to the disruption of service, health hazard or inconvenience.
Brighton's increased number of rough sleepers have obviously been affected badly by the dispute. Some have taken to clearing rubbish themselves and trying to limit the carnage from the gulls. It's been both moving and disturbing to see this. Like most residents, I love Brighton warts and all, but open rubbish tips on main roads and along the seafront were avoidable and are not acceptable. Due to recent experience, most of us have no faith that the backlog will be cleared quickly or easily. The suspension of industrial action is temporary; there's no mention of contingency plans if the 28 day consultation fails.
Oh and instead of warning residents that we could face legal action if we pull back an effective refund for loss of services, perhaps an open and honest apology and explanation were in order. A guarantee that next year's council tax charge will reflect this sorry situation wouldn't go amiss.
Just sayin'.


 
 


  "Dirty Old Town" The Pogues (version)
 
 
 
 

Each time you blink

 
 "While every refugee's story is different and their anguish personal, they all share a common thread of uncommon courage: the courage not only to survive, but to persevere and rebuild their shattered lives."
( Antonio Guterres, United Nations Refugee Agency)

Yesterday was World Refugee Day; very tellingly, I forgot about it, as many did. It took the often stunning but exhausting Russell Brand on last night's Question Time panel to remind me, and the audience. So often in these economically depressed times, the word is "Refugee" and yet we hear "Immigration"; and we feel the boundary.
A United Nations report issued this week confirms starkly that that we’re experiencing the worst refugee crisis in nearly two decades. Nearly 50 million are currently displaced from their homes due to conflict or violence. This is the highest number since 1994, when millions of people fled "ethnic cleansing" and genocide in former Yugoslavia and Rwanda.
The majority of today's refugees are originally from Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Sudan and Syria. Beyond any scaremonger sloganeering from any political corner or hole, it may surprise many in the U.K. that the countries that historically have most opened their borders to refugees remain constant: Pakistan, wracked by its own crises; followed by Iran, Germany and Kenya. Turkey has joined the "top ten" list after giving refuge to an influx of Syrians, displaced by or fleeing the civil war.
The United Nations estimates that the war in Syria, now in it's third year, has forced 1.6 million Syrians into neighbouring Jordan, Lebanon and Turkey. They flee from a conflict which has so far killed nearly 100,000 people, crushed their homes, schools and businesses and denied their identity. They do not leave by any choice other than the will to survive and to see their children live. It's the same spirit which gets you and I out of bed in the morning, scratching and groaning, to grab breakfast and get the bus to work; minus the job, the bus, the breakfast and the home: insert fear and hunger instead. Later this year, the number of refugees from Syria alone will reach 3 million. For those of you who don't find the Bible believable or relevant to modern living, there are situations of epic displacement, persecution and exodus across the world right now.
As this summer solstice dawned, as with each new day, another 23,000 people began their own search for safety or refuge from persecution. Few borders are geographical rather than manmade; worldwide problems don't stop at checkpoints. Charity certainly should begin at home but the outside world which essentially houses all of us, does not begin or end at your own doorstep. Our world has a newly internally displaced person every four seconds. As Antonio Guterres, chief of the U.N.'s Refugee Agency says: "Each time you blink, another person is forced to flee,"

 

"On World Refugee Day, I call on the international community to intensify efforts to prevent and resolve conflicts, and to help achieve peace and security so that families can be reunited and refugees can return home."
(Ban Ki-moon, U.N. Secretary-General)

 "In my experience, going home is the deepest wish of most refugees."
(Angelina Jolie, U.N. Envoy)
 
 
 
"Seven Seconds" Youssou N'dour with Neneh Cherry 


Thursday 20 June 2013

"The first of a million kisses"

"Take spring when it comes and rejoice.
Take happiness when it comes and rejoice.
Take love when it comes and rejoice"
(Carl Ewald).
 

"And think not you can
direct the course of love,
for love,
if it finds you worthy,
directs your course."
 (Khalil Gibran)
 
Walking rather carefully across town today in the midst of an aggravating and aggressive dispute between Brighton Council and the city's refuse and recycling teams, I saw two families working together to clear the pavement and wash down the road themselves. Having accidently poured soapsuds all over my sandals, a lovely girl explained that her nan is getting married tomorrow and the reception will be held at her family home. The wedding was originally planned for Thursday 13th June - my own parents' anniversary. I explained this to Sarah and that was that really. Three fairy cakes, a pot of tea and a dozen introductions later and I finally stumbled back onto the Lewes Road to buy the stuffed vine leaves and olives I'd left the house for earlier.
I didn't meet Sarah's nan as she'd been taken to have her hair set and be generally pampered before her big day. Hella is marrying the typical "boy next door". Literally. The pavement in front of Hella's house was being almost surgically scrubbed by his two great-nephews. Hella's next door neighbour has never married and is now in his late eighties. I met Derek in Hella's front room, having one hand manicured ("emphasis on the Man bit you know"), while eating his fairy cake with the other. A seemingly confirmed bachelor, he moved next door to Hella and her first husband more than forty years ago.
Although he got on really well with the couple, he fell head over heels in love with Hella. Unable to say or do anything about his feelings and genuinely fond of her husband, he remained their loyal neighbour and best mate as the couple's three children presented them with four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. He was their rock as Hella survived cancer twice and throughout her husband's catalogue of falls and strokes and his final illness; they nursed Derek through depression and after an almost crippling car accident.
They tended each other's back gardens and even had a gate installed in the back fence for ease of access. Derek will now live in Hella's house and her son, Sarah's father, will move into Derek's house with his wife. Hella is in her early nineties now and not very mobile without a steadying hand and a lot of cajoling; her son and his wife had always intended to move closer to her when her husband died. Derek said he didn't want the hassle of selling his house and this way the two gardens can just become one. He thinks of the children as his own and his siblings are happy for everything to stay in the family.
When Hella's husband died last year, Derek sat with her, cried with her and cooked her roast dinners. He spoke at his friend's funeral and was stunned when the will revealed that he had left him care of his "most precious loved thing" - his wife. Apparently, Hella's husband had known of Derek's unspoken devotion for nearly half a century. In turn, he felt that his totally loyal wife had always had a soft spot for Derek. It took Derek two more days before he could find the words to tell Hella her husband had seen the truth. He said she cried, blew her nose, told him she loved him too but had liked and respected her husband and believed in marriage "Till death do us part". Now that it had, she said, Derek had better pop the question before one of them popped their clogs. Also, she wanted to catch up with Coronation Street that evening.
The couple decided to hold the wedding after the anniversary of Hella's first marriage, in April. It was postponed from 13th of June when the families realised that one of the many nieces would be in hospital that day. I was interested that they had originally chosen the thirteenth of any month; 13th June was the date that Derek moved in next door to Hella and her family so many years ago. I'd managed to maintain an element of composure until Derek told me this: I'd been thinking last week that my Dad wold have been married to Mum for more years than he'd actually lived.
I told Derek I'd been to see Bruce Springsteen at Wembley Stadium last Saturday and taken Mum's photograph so that she could somehow be there, many years after she last saw The Boss play there, with me. This lovely old man, with his sea-coloured eyes and a penchant for having his plumber's hands manicured, told me that sentimentality was the echo of love and loveliness. He told me never to knock it; let it jolt you and you will always know you're still alive.
Beautifully, both families are delighted by the union. Derek was worried that Hella's son and daughters might think he was after her "for one thing". Money? He has his own. Her house? He already had too many rooms for one person, next door. Derek was concerned that as a lifelong bachelor, Hella's family might think the boy-next-door would be sniffing around for physical creature comforts. Derek said Hella soon sorted him out about this: "I don't just want to hold hands you know," she told him, "The kids would much rather I was tucked up here with you than going on the Lonely Hearts." Indeed.
People often trivialise the physical or even emotional power of relationships between older or elderly lovers. That upsets me a lot; I believe that love makes even a failing heart beat faster. Romance and sexual love only have a sell by date if the relationship hasn't been blended properly. It's true that as you age, you can fully appreciate that com-passion is the sustaining flame born of communication and passion.
I'll be working when Derek finally marries his Hella tomorrow, although I may pop along for the reception and more fairy cakes. Derek told me they're not going away from Brighton at all, because every day will now be a honeymoon and also because for them, Love lives in their steep little street.
I asked him if forsaking bachelorhood might be difficult: he said it would be "interesting"; seeing that Hella had found someone before him had been extremely difficult, but not being with her when she was on her own would have been unbearable. He said he was an old dinosaur but he just wanted to be loved; I immediately thought of the Edward Monkton poem that featured in the recent wedding of the youngest daughter of my friends, Ellen and Tom. I'd never heard it before, although I'd seen some of Monkton's greetings cards and cartoons. I've included it here as a childlike celebration of unconditional romantic love, with all it's simplicity and intrigues. We're basic creatures but capable of the most noble sentiments.
I didn't get my dolmades after all, although I think I found something much richer and more filling today. The deli had sold out; I was still a bit teary-eyed and I think the kind Turkish shop-keeper thought I was upset about my failure to gather supper. He gave me some veggie pate for free instead. I tried to be honest and explain but it made me blub again and he started to look wary. I thanked him, smiled and took the pate. Which was delicious with pitta and olives. See: basic creatures.
  

 
" A Lovely Love Story"
(Edward Monkton)
The fierce Dinosaur was trapped inside his cage of ice.
Although it was cold he was happy in there. It was, after all, his cage.
Then along came the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
The Lovely Other Dinosaur melted the Dinosaur’s cage with kind words and loving thoughts.
I like this Dinosaur thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
 Although he is fierce he is also tender and he is funny.
He is also quite clever though I will not tell him this for now.
I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur, thought the Dinosaur.
She is beautiful and she is different and she smells so nice.
She is also a free spirit which is a quality I much admire in a dinosaur.
But he can be so distant and so peculiar at times, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
He is also overly fond of things.
Are all Dinosaurs so overly fond of things?
But her mind skips from here to there so quickly thought the Dinosaur.
She is also uncommonly keen on shopping.
Are all Lovely Other Dinosaurs so uncommonly keen on shopping?
I will forgive his peculiarity and his concern for things, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
 For they are part of what makes him a richly charactered individual.
I will forgive her skipping mind and her fondness for shopping, thought the Dinosaur
 For she fills our life with beautiful thoughts and wonderful surprises.
Besides,
I am not unkeen on shopping either.
Now the Dinosaur and the Lovely Other Dinosaur are old.
Look at them.
Together they stand on the hill telling each other stories and feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs.
And that, my friends, is how it is with love.
Let us all be Dinosaurs and Lovely Other Dinosaurs together.
For the sun is warm.
And the world is a beautiful place.
 
 
 
 
"Love Monkey", a five minute film based on the book by Edward Monkton.
 

 
 

  
"Allelujah"  Fairground Attraction
  
"Your smile is a prayer that prays for love
and your heart is a kite that longs to fly;
Allelujah here I am-
Let's cut the strings tonight,
and we'll kiss the first of a million kisses"
( Mark Edward Nevin) 
  


"You don't have to go looking for love when it's where you come from."
(Werner Erhard)

Monday 17 June 2013

Boys will be men



"When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years."
(Mark Twain)

Yesterday was Father's Day. With every passing year, my Dad becomes ever more the yardstick that any man who should come into my life in the future will be held up to. With every passing year, he has also become the mirror I hold up to myself.
Father's Day was originally inaugurated in the United States early in the twentieth century to compliment the celebration of Mother's Day. Most probably founded in 1910 in Washington by Ms Sonora Smart-Dodd, a member of the Christian Women's Temperance Society. She had told her pastor that fathers should be honoured as well as mothers; her own father, a veteran of the Civil War, was a widower who had raised his six children on his own. 
The first celebration was on 19th June that year; Sonora's father's birthday was a couple of weeks earlier. Initially, public acknowledgement was vague and variable; Americans resisted the innovation for some decades, viewing it as a mainly commercial venture. Finally, after two failed lobbies, President Johnson issued a presidential proclamation in 1966, designating the third Sunday in June as Father's Day. As recently as 1972 , Richard Nixon passed it into law as a public holiday in the States, finally following the annual celebration of motherhood.
On a recent visit to the doctor's surgery, I realised I had interrupted quite a busy antenatal clinic. I'm accustomed to seeing very young mums-to-be in Brighton; often with one or two other small children already attached. In a city with such severe housing problems, seasonal employment and a burgeoning younger population, you often note the pattern of four year gaps between pregnancies. A "career mother" may necessarily escape the often demoralising job-search and fortnightly interrogations at the local benefits office. I asked my friend's little girl what she wanted to do when she left school and this bright and confident child promptly told me she wanted to have her first child at eighteen and a sister or brother at around twenty two. But I readily admit that I know very young and very devoted single mums, who love their kids obviously and unconditionally and who appreciate that parenting is both as tough and as good as it gets. But what of the young fathers?
Sat opposite me at the surgery was a young, skinny boy of seventeen, flanked by his seriously pregnant girlfriend, two years older, and by her mother; seemingly three feet taller and broader than both of them. His trainer laces were undone and his coach's cap was back to front. Both of these affectations appeared to be deliberate, unlike his presence at a prenatal clinic. He looked terrified. 
The granny-to-be glared at me as I made conversation with the couple. I asked him if he was looking forward to being a dad: he shrugged and muttered that he didn't even know his own father yet. This nearly broke my heart but earned him a threatening scowl from uber-gran. She told me being a father was a "piece of p***"; that her own kids had three different dads and she'd managed without hearing from any of them. The lad shuddered, as if he too was wondering if she'd disposed of a stream of baby-fathers. 
I disagree with her utterly: it's true that a boy can easily father a child, but it takes a man to become a dad. We pressurise our boys to man-up even though this often encourages eternal laddishness. We smile indulgently as little Mikey struts around after his big brothers with his water-gun in the park but tut unsympathetically and from a distance when an older but not wiser Mick confuses assertion and aggression at the football pitch. Is it any wonder that many teenage boys prefer to steer clear of the minefield of open emotions, theirs or anyone else's? 
While society may not actively encourage boys to be promiscuous, the sowing of the male oats can still be seen as an unspoken rite of passage. Determinedly chaste at twenty five, I was considered a scared, silly or at worst frigid female. One of my dearest friends around then, a confident and funny gay man who was a virgin in his early twenties, was simply seen as some kind of freak. Pressurised into sex with his first boyfriend, he was diagnosed with AIDS at the age of twenty three.
Traditionally, little girls are not dissuaded from developing nurturing skills from an early age. Generally, I don't believe we wholeheartedly prepare little boys to expect and embrace fatherhood: toys, games and the media are still very gender-centric. 
The lad at the surgery told me he'd not really ever thought about being a father and had known his girlfriend three months before she fell pregnant. He looked as though he was being punished, although the girl and her mother professed themselves to be over-joyed at the news. His possible mum-in-law-to-be nudged him and said at least he was "in working order" and that the hardest part was over for him. I wanted to tell him that actually being a father could be the biggest, bravest, brightest part of him. I wish I had: I wish someone had told him long before he was pulled into an antenatal clinic with his laces undone and feeling that his future was all stitched up against him.

"By the time a man realises that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong."
(Charles Wadsworth)

 
"For a New Father"
(John O'Donohue)
As the shimmer of dawn transforms the night
Into a blush of color futured with delight,
The eyes of your new child awaken in you
A brightness that surprises your life.
Since the first stir of its secret becoming,
The echo of your child has lived inside you,
Strengthening through all its night of forming
Into a sure pulse of fostering music.
How quietly and gently that embryo-echo
Can womb in the bone of a man
And foster across the distance to the mother
A shadow-shelter around this fragile voyage.
Now as you behold your infant, you know
That this child has come from you and to you;
You feel the full force of a father' desire
To protect and shelter.
Perhaps for the first time
There awakens in you
A sense of your own mortality.
May your heart rest in the grace of the gift
And you sense how you have been called
Inside the dream of this new destiny.
May you be gentle and loving,
Clear and sure.
May you trust in the unseen providence
That has chosen you all to be a family.
May you stand sure on your ground
And know that every grace you need
Will unfold before you
Like all the mornings of your life



"This is my most important role. If I fail at this, I fail at everything."
(Actor Mark Wahlberg)


"Father and Son" Ronan Keating and Yusuf Islam

"It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was."
(Anne Sexton)

Saturday 15 June 2013

Flowering


"Sometimes beautiful things come into our lives out of nowhere. We can't always understand them, but we have to trust in them."
(Lauren Kate)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

"Even the merest gesture is holy if it is filled with faith." 
(Franz Kafka)

I've already said that my posts are a little lagging on here at the moment. Last week, my first rose of the summer burst open in my little back garden. It's since been followed by other equally full,  brazenly yellow roses; then fuchsias  the strawberry plant (in it's third year) and other perky little bits and bods. The first rose was so gorgeous that I had to take a photo of it. Just a couple of weeks before, the rose bush was still skeletal and thorned. My roses are late this year, having survived another winter of prolonged wet and wind and then a reluctant spring, even wetter and windier.
A very lovely lady called Martina recently read some of my blog and asked me where I got my faith from. I was immediately silenced by this, which doesn't happen often, because my knowledge of my faith or anything "holy" is rather holed.  I just didn't have a ready answer. The following day, my rose unfurled. 
My favourite colour is red, but my favourite flowers are actually yellow, from daffodils to hypericum to sunflowers.  I love bright yellow roses and most of the roses in my garden are intentionally sunshine coloured. Dorothy Frances Gurney's assertion that one is closer to God in a garden than anywhere else has really resounded with me since I moved down to Brighton. My little house has many inherent faults and much work to be done, but it has a garden. The concrete and weed postage stamp out back probably sold the property to me. 
I think it's fair to say that the previous owner didn't extend much time or tenderness to the garden. It harbored untended jasmine, laurel and pear trees, and one very hooky and hard-headed rose tree (pink). These have been befriended and the whole area planted and populated. It's wild and quite willful and a work in progress. It's responded to my coaxing and determination with colour and a tenacity not bottled by B and Q or Homebase. It crackles with birds and bees, spiders and snails and now a toad; it has a life of it's own. I sit out there at night with a cuppa as the solar lights and lanterns flicker out. In a town that's struggling to come to terms with disillusionment and dilapidation, I'm lucky to have a roof over my head and totally blessed to have my back yard.
It's occurred to me that my fascination with the natural world and the wonders of science that baffle my little brain have strengthened my faith over the years. The prerogative of atheists to cite the big bang and the initial squib of evolution doesn't dilute my belief in God; the enormity and minutiae of the universe and beyond don't seem at odds with my idea of a greater design and a higher power. My roses come through snow and ice to meet each new summer; my pear tree was dark and woody and apparently barren but only needed a little clearing and encouragement to grow into the abundant fruit-bearer it was always intended to be.
Along the seafront towards the Peace Memorial, there's a streak of graffiti that confirms that "shit happened". And so it does; and often to good people. I'm trying to be a better person but I'm now comfortable and relieved with being ordinary. Along with so many other ordinary people, I've shed a lot of tears in the past three or four years; too many, not of joy. But smiling is a reflex that doesn't rust easily. I've also learned that it rains a great deal in East Sussex; folk greet the sun like a prodigal child. 
In fact, Martina and her husband Frank and their bright, tight family of siblings, babies and elders are hugely inspiring to me, and to others I'm sure. There's a tangible faith in their family and love for each other, their endless enterprise for business and their concern for community. So, people like me get some of our faith from people like you and yours, Martina.
I often say, whether anyone is still listening or not, that religions are cultivated by man but faith is naturally occurring. Our history bears the hopefulness of our future, seen and unseen. There's a world of infinite and resilient beauty beneath our daily dust. Ask any rose.



"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."
(Mother Teresa) 


"The Rose" Andre Rieu & Orchestra, with sopranos Suzan Erens, Carmen Monarcha and Carla Maffioletti.